There is ice
on the pavement
and the wind hasn't stopped for a week.

The sky is dim
and polluted
and our cigarettes shine brighter
than the stars do.

You enter
and you are wild flowers
in a town that has only
ever known the colour
grey.

Others are just funeral cars
passing by,
whilst you are full-blown technicolour
in this void.

You look my way
and approach me.
The stars shine
more brightly tonight.