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2003-12-21
I think it's the winter air, how my hands become cold and cracked so easily. I long for a cigarette. To let it dangle between my fingers, to inhale an intoxicated solution and to blow it out again in arrows. The nights are longer than the days and my body is forgetting warmth and light. The snow, sugar on the sidewalks and covering the trees, beg for footsteps. I only want cigarettes when the air is cold, when winter is at its peak, because in some way I believe it provides the warmth I'm missing. Ember is very close to embrace.
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