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The Stop button
like the roadways are 
frozen, over.
you say,
since you've left
my muse is a carpet
my canvas, it's blank
a blanket
in white covers and
sea shells that depict
our story in cigarette shorts
that were intended and clipped,
becoming only ruins, on accident-
would become our ashes
and still, as the sheets are pretty,
we are like the streets
an open, icy, unsafe abyss
at our indulgence that winter
that harbors the crazed
only so many eat inns until we relinquish
from the depths of that cold
that which we couldn't
control, though i'd beg to differ
the bitterness of endings
and certain as i was to believe that
i would need be relentless but true
but i knew, even then that this city
though tireless, couldn't save us.