His hand presses up against lucid windows if only to eyes milked over. Bent at the tips, staring out at the cold and grey, staring out onto roofs and chimneys and more roofs that must be related by blood. And water that pours down and in. Water on fog and glass, and the only thing separating the outsides from the insides is a quarter of an inch of something he can hardly see through. Drops tend to tap dance, but those are the only heels and toes he will welcome against the back of his skin.

And all signs point to red and yellow and green. And then nothing. The outside and the inside feel the same against warm bodies huddled under sibling roofs. And the sense of impending goosebumps, climbing up through the body into the throat so we can run our tongues over imperfections.

He slips his hand away from cloudy surfaces, leaving his handprint hanging in the smoky air. Windows crying for help to the coldgrey.

Or maybe just waving goodbye because there are no hellos, not from roofs or chimneys or raindrops performing for sidewalks and parked cars.