Grey Out

The streetlights were just smudges,

like someone rubbed a thumb

across a wet photograph.

I couldn't see the pavement

or the curb, just the idea of them.

Sound died a block back.

My own breath was the loudest thing,

a rasping, damp thing

that never seemed to leave my face.

The air, thick as a wool blanket

I'd forgotten to take off,

choked the edges of the world.

Just a few more steps, I told myself,

to the corner store.

But the corner kept receding,

a ghost town swallowed whole

by this soft, cold silence.