Peeling paint underneath the pastel wallpaper, locking the car door the moment you see a ‘them’, a ‘them’ that’s somehow so separate from the ‘us’.
It’s all so sensible it can drive you insane.
There’s a beating in the ears as bare feet pass over frozen pavement, running over ice in nothing but jeans and the cardigan found crumpled on the stairwell. Clouds escaping dry lips as the sky darkens and the streetlights become warmer. Running from cream-colored siding, Audi’s with salt stains on the side, to boarded windows among concrete blocks scratching at the skyline. Heart stuck in the throat, eyes struggling to stay open as the mind races towards cracked sidewalks and discarded papers blowing under Brooklyn Bridge.
There’s no purity without pain, but I’ve always believed in shadows when no ones in the room.