They walked home the same way everyday but avoided eye contact. She would stop every now and tehn to crack the ice in the gutters, and he had to slow himself down to keep behind her.

She was shy like bruised knees [violet and ash]. The chill of winter wind pulled back her scarf and threw her hair in her face, striking it limply. The winter gave her chapped lips, and reminded her of Picasso's blue period.

Occasionally they would be on the same bus going downtown. She would watch his reflection in the window. He would run his fingers through his hair and pick the dirt from underneath his fingernails.

Other days when she took the bus alone, when the only other passengers were the elderly and the homeless, she would watch blue light hit flat buildings.

They pretended not to notice eachother and became interested in minor personal flaws when crossing paths. They understood the pain of winter, and how it felt when it hit your bones. How that cough comes in November and stays in the hollows of your ribs until March.