Breath on the Cusp of Cold

The sky thins out to porcelain and lead.

Streetlights bloom early, halos soft and red.

A hush drops low between the telephone wires.

As if the world is banking dying fires.

Leaves drag along the curb in papery swirls.

Dry as old letters, stiff as tightened curls.

They scrape the stones like whispered, folded news,

Brown fingertips that don’t know what to lose.

The air tastes sharper, bright with metal rain.

Cold citrus on the tongue, a clean, small pain.

It slips beneath my collar, finds my spine,

An unseen hand that twists a warning sign.

My breath turns visible, a fleeting veil.

Brief ghosts that rise, then fracture, fail.

Each exhale beads on railings, cars, and glass.

Silver fingerprints that tremble, then they pass.

Far off, a train coughs once and disappears.

Its echo drags a suitcase full of years.

A lone dog’s bark rings out, then folds in tight,

Stitched into roofs and chimneys, dusk and light.

On branches, last red berries smolder, bright.

Like coals that don’t yet know they’ve lost the fight.

Their sweetness hangs faintly sugared in the air.

A memory of warmth that isn’t there.

The ground grows brittle, slick with hidden glaze;

Shoes slide, and gravel pops in tiny praise.

The sky leans closer, dimming blue to slate.

And every sound says quietly: too late.