Short Love Stories #3: The Bench

He sat on the empty bench. We used to sit here, you and I. He looks down to the palm of his hand. The lines of his skin, now tired and dry. The lines she used do draw. For some reason, the tears always followed the paths she carved with the light touch of her fingers. He smiled. You said you'd always be here. And so did I.
So he was always there, on that bench. Every sunset. And so was she. Always.