I walked out with a piece of chalk in my hand.
In that moment it was the only thing I felt.
A soft piece of white surrounded by my clenched fist.
It was clean and bright.
Just like the sky.
I held it against the wall of buildings as I moved forward.
Curving my hand in arcs and letting the white dance along the bare walls.
Not wanting to look at the world behind.
Forward and forward and forward.
I walked until I felt the heat on my fingers, as the last speck of white disappeared and my fingers met brick.
I stopped, looked back and thought of the distance.
It was only a piece of chalk away.