Poetry night. Ya know, deep stuff.

My headphones in, 
ignore the cars and the squelching of tires against wet concrete. 
The lights of apartments and late night establishments project their neon 
hues onto the wet pavement and run together 
like watercolors in a bathtub. 
The red of the stoplight glows under my feet 
and engulfs me in its blurred reflection. 
The shadow behind me belongs in this world 
revealed only by rain soaked sidewalks on cold, dark, nights like this. 
It follows me 
relentlessly waiting for me to stop. 
To sink into the greens, yellows, reds, and golds. 
Not yet. I must keep walking. 
I need the warmth and the tangible things that living life requires. 
To stop would keep me in this rain, 
cold and going nowhere. 
The beauty of these glowing streets is in the spontaneity of its appearance 
and how fleeting and momentary it remains. 
As is the enjoyment of love and life. 
The only thing we know about any thing 
is that every thing 
must 
come 
to an end. 
Even nights like this 
when the sidewalk bleeds green,
the puddles swim red, 
and the streets glow in purple. 
So now I'll let the sound of Fleet Foxes 
and the pounding of my tired feet
lead me home with the promise 
of a warm bed 
and things to be done tomorrow.