A walk.

Through the brisk air, weaving through the trees draped with festive holiday lights and around fountains streaming with cool snow-water, we walk. We don't touch. We don't smile. We don't speak. We just walk. The planes of your face are silhouetted by the dim glow of the moon as your features pinch together in concentration. The anticipation is killing me, biting a bloody hole in my lip. It's just him and me, me and him. The snow. The lights. The bloody hole in my lower lip. Who knew the light at the end of the tunnel could be nothing but a trainwreck waiting to happen? The youngsters throwing themselves at any opportunity to love, to be loved, only to be mutilated and left for dead in the end. We think that we are happy, yet it's a facade. An act. And we end up bleeding when things don't work out. Yet, if only we had to step back for a minute, examine the moment through the lense of a camera, we would see that we thought too fast. And now, we pay. We wait for those biting words that reject us for being too clingy or too desperate. All because we convinced ourselves that we were in love. The perfect couple, together because the public found it necessary and took pleasure from the sight of our held hands, our passionate kisses.We never thought to consider the consequences, and here we walk, silent and stone-cold, wondering if we had made a mistake.