Charro Days, Before the Lights Go Out
J.P. Stillwell
They met where papel picado
swayed low in the street,
where trumpets had rested
and dust cooled the feet.
Her skirt still remembered
the spin of the song,
his hands held a courage
he’d borrowed too long.
The crowd thinned to echoes,
to lantern and sigh,
to promises practiced
but left unsaid, shy.
He noticed her ribbon,
she noticed his grin,
how both looked away
at the same time again.
The night smelled of roses,
of leather and bread,
of dances remembered
and dances ahead.
They stood at the corner
where goodbyes are born,
where maybe feels fragile
and hope feels worn.
No vows, no forever,
just until next year,
just a look saying wait
and a heart saying here.
And Charro Days kept it,
that moment, that spark—
two young souls learning
how love leaves a mark.
What Charro Days Gave Us
We were almost grown,
but not quite brave,
wearing borrowed confidence
and Sunday clothes saved.
The street was a ribbon
of color and sound,
of laughter stitched loosely
where futures weren’t found.
Your dress caught the light
like it knew how to dance,
my shadow kept pace
with the length of the chance.
We talked about nothing—
the band, the heat,
how the day always ends
before it feels complete.
When the music slowed
and the banners came down,
the night learned our names
and refused to forget town.
I never asked where you lived,
you never asked me the same,
because some moments survive
by not being named.
Charro Days gave us one—
just one perfect hour,
pressed flat in memory
like a wild desert flower.
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