This wind keeps snapping at our feet
through shoes unravelling.
Gales are hungry.
Night's abandoned,
streets have emptied.
Still, we own them--just keep talking.
Winter's wailing.
**** the old days.
Clutching coats closed,
tread nostalgia
past these sidewalk intersections.
Claimed by rambling conversations,
often
we're only
rehashing
our worst mistakes
and
shivering
our way be-
-neath stoplights
lit by good memories.
I've got this notion tonight
that we'll find our way
back
into the warmth found behind
our locked front doorways.
Ways we've found to always hide
our faces from the cold outside
have been running dry all night.
So drink down the cold street light
and we'll make a blur of those green-white street signs.
This cold's still clawing at your face
through scarf unraveling.
Chapped lips smiling.
Nights like this have
kept on piling.
Winter owns us. Just keep walking.
Winter's crying,
"**** the old days!"
Frostbit footsteps
slip nostalgia
past these frowning checkpoint questions.
Retouch same old observations.
Sometimes
we're only
retracing
the same missteps
but
frigid
friends like us
are melting
into old habits
I've got this notion tonight
that we'll take this route
for
one more familiar cold flight
from here to daybreak.
Say, "let fly those bomb bay doors!"
We've bombed these frozen streets before,
and I've got a couple more
so keep moving 'til we find our front doors.
