I do that thing again, where I pull a friend’s hand to my chest and say “feel my heart”. It’s beating furiously. You’re alive, you’re alive, you’re alive. Ready to run off somewhere imaginary, and wanting me to follow. Be chill, my heart, We walk down Shacklewell Lane, stiff-limbed and shaking. Talk in small clouds, and curse the cold night. Buzzing in the wake of scuzzy guitars. At the junction, we stamp our feet waiting for the lights. Charge on green for the warmth of a diner, and huddle amongst the nighthawks. Sit, and talk and weave a thread. Lament about this and that, between grease and bread. And then head into the cold again. Zig-zagging our way between sidewalk conversations to a glowing roundel in the distance. Freeze and wait. And wait and wait. And then a long journey with a heart as freight. Two trains. The moon. A frozen lark. Back home, it’s my phone that’s a light in the dark.

Safe.