Rust.

I'd like to take your hand and run to the top of a hill or a tower. We can watch the city come alive while the world self-destructs. We can almost fall over but not quite, because we'll keep each other safe. It can be like a film noir.

Afterwards, I can walk you all the way home. We can hold hands and laugh, then kiss one last time outside of your door.

And then I'll be alone again. The recent memories will keep me warm, though. Trash is embedded in the snow. Useless bus transfers, dropped candy. The body of a bird on the side of the road.

I'm singing along to memorized songs, but I can't hear myself through the earphones. There's cars and empty buses to keep me company.

Except now I'm in the darkness where there's no streetlights, and everything is in silhouette. Dogs bark from behind stencil-fences. I can see lit windows, and family dinner scenes through them.

Orange light is far away, and after that there's bright white light against the grey wall I once knew so well.

Christmas lights, none of them are red and green and white. They're rainbows captured into tiny bulbs and wrapped around fences and bushes and railings.

Graffiti, graffiti. All so familiar, as it should be; I made most of it.

The CD is over and I'm listening to silence.

My leg is numb from where my bag thumps against it with every step.

Dig in your left heel. That's it.