The red Lines in the road

There are red lines in the road.
Shaped as though someone lay there once, lonesome and cold.
There are red stains on my clothes, “how did they get there?” I wonder aloud.
My hand claps against my mouth- but it seems no one heard.
Bewildered, I yell and jump around in front of a photographer.
He doesn’t even blink.
Am I invisible?
I gasp. My mouth goes dry. Faster and faster the memories swim around me,
Realization dawn upon me, freezing cold:
Those are my lines in the road.