On Fire

I started writing a new story today. It couldn't be helped. Somewhere between a minute of silent solitude and the sweat of scrubbing wood floors it formed itself while I wasn't watching. I sat by the typewriter trying to catch it as the last lingering chords of his playlist ebbed out into the freezing night. There is still snow on the citibikes and parked cars. You feel the cold claws of January reach for you; there's a panicked smile on your face trying to conceal it, but you know it's almost at your neck, breathing cold darkness in your ear and you are one tripped step from falling into its clutches.

When I walk into a room
I do not light it up
Fuck

The story is the only thing that can save you, now.