As a low-light evening bounces off a far wall,
fading into closed establisments,
empty streets and lonely walks,
the color drains,
leaving a living memory in the current moment,
walking through itself
in its strange existence.

Every footstep echoes.

The cool breeze fights for exposure against jacketed arms
and orange street light pulls at the eyeline,
highlighting circling moths
and remaining neutral on important subjects,
like 'how much farther until home'.

Places as familiar as family
look so different
in these conditions.

The smell of coolings cars
and closing fast food counters
restore color of a different kind
to this monochrome walk.

Nothing lives in these moments;
Cats eyes watch from rooftops,
devoid of furry faces
and the odd stranger dares
only a flicker
toward, and then away from.
Cars passing on crossroads drive themselves
through the reflective streams of earlier rain
that stick to known paths on the road surface.

Front doors and kitchen windows,
dark and locked,
offer no comfort.
And morning is distant, but on the way.

Sun's rays
won't warm these neighborhoods
for hours,
but wind keeps coming,
elongating seconds.

Drops still fall from gutters.
Fresh dew on clumps of grass
that sprout from cracks
in ageing concrete,
infiltrate the shoes,
soaking socks,
wrinkling toes
and bringing further urgency
to hasty steps.

Key in hand.
Key in door.
Key on table.

Head on pillow.