There are a thousand more steps to take on cold, anonymous, rain sodden suburban paving, but I am near the freezing end. I am old. I stand still. I still stand. My tears will not freeze. They only serve to remind my eyes of the cold out here.
There is a distant bitter laughter in the air. It is raining, a grim degree above snow. It’s bitter cold outside my coat. It is bitter cold outside my hat. My fingers would be blue with cold if they were not fists inside my pockets. I am older. Barking echoes faintly, a soundtrack for solitary considerations. I know the ghostly warmth of you behind a thousand dimly lit windows.
Your eyes stare through curtains you gently part in such fragrant slow motion. A fragrance, a falsified memory of your musky scents, of herbal soaps, lotions and ointments flits about for an instant and is gone, banished by a sudden distant, spiteful laughter in the air, in my head, that spits out, “What a sorry specimen he is! What a sorry state he’s in!” It is then that I am blessed with a blink. Your blink is built upon the ruins of my imagination.