Cold Air

The Cold Air
I can feel it following as I cross the street, shadows of objects moving at a steady pace. I lost count of the cracks in the pavement beneath my feet, I don't care anymore. The air becomes thick enough to hold my hand as if to comfort me in my last hour. The moon is dead and raindrops hit my face with the consistancy of sand. White painted crossings seemingly stained in blood, glass begging to be walked on. To avoid it I take a path where mud replaces the grass and it I can feel it spilling into my wounds like vinegar. My head is in a constant state of light and my stomach that used to burn now burnt out. How long have I been walking? And why is the air so cold? Branches in the trees take flight and fall failing to startle me. The air stinging my face reminding me of raindrops forming tears beneath my eyes, if only there were really. There are no cars, people or birds to smother the silence as I approach the highway looking for The Bridge. There are no clouds, voices or words to change my mind as I climb the bridge looking for salvation. Even up here overlooking all of the empty buildings and brokens windows there is still. Only. The Cold Air.