visiting old selves

i wanted to hold it. feel the last whiff of the cold wind on my bare skin. i wanted to remember the bone numbing chillness. the complete defenselessness against the harsh winter. i wanted to get lost in the fog and float in the mist.

i walked with the cold December wind in my hair and with a cigarette in my lips. the fog faded everyone out. i felt the iciness settle on my finger tips as i tried to take another puff. the chill crept into my very being. numbing every thought and every feeling.

i tried to breathe and saw the warm circles of air being eaten up. the burning end of the cigarette was the only beacon of light in the darkness of the night. the hissing sound of the burning cloves absorbed my senses and sweetened my frosty lips.

it was the beginning of my trip back home.