Perpetual Lines

Deep within the city streets, the subway runs
in the same darkness which envelopes the store
fronts, their windows uncolored by Christmas lights.
I cross the street, packages stacked in my weak arms,
not bothered by silver bells praying for money
in the hands of Santa, and my vision obstructed
by my own delusions of success.
Cars pass, each driver as strange as you
have become to me, as insignificant as memories
stored within a broken mind.
Every day, I walk this perpetual line
across the street, and every night I take the bus
home—reliable, sturdy and fast—
but weaving in and out of foreign neighborhoods,
like my thoughts on you.