It’s so quiet the stars could hear me scream.
My street is hushed, empty. Crisp cold oxygen clears my sinuses.
I don’t even want a jacket because I am a ghost of echoey faraway winter laughter, and ghosts don’t feel the cold, they only breathe it.
I have to leave this oxygen soon.
I wish I could bottle it up, but it tastes of freedom, too, and freedom needs open to survive.
I’ll leave it here, for everyone else,
And hold my breath until more comes along.