Tonight cars are creeping past the window.
Yellow streetlights blink--on, off--on, again
and are green, and red, between each waiting.
The whole world hums.

Tonight, I am alone but am not lonely.
The T.V. on: soundless, and soothing;
familiar, and strange.

The cold slips in the window, its breath
a whisper on skin: exposed, to the elements
of memory, and of future, and of now.

Tonight, fingers reaching, to the blankets.
I pull, the velvet, sky down.