The park bench still held
the warmth of her body,
but she was gone. He
sat down, watching the
empty swing sway in the
dusk breeze, its chains
creaking a rhythm they
used to count together.
A child laughed somewhere
beyond the trees, and he
turned instinctively,
half-expecting to see her
running toward him with
grass-stained knees. The
air smelled of cut grass
and fading light. He
picked up a small,
forgotten hair ribbon from
the dirt, its pink faded
to gray.
She used to tie it
around her wrist, not
her hair.
He slipped it into his
pocket, then pushed the
swing gently, once, as
if to send it after
her.
The sky bled orange into
purple, and the creak
became a sigh.