smoke

Cold fingers prickle the sides of my face.

The touch is gentle, and it almost feels warm.

I grasp the hands, rubbing them with my own,

hoping to lend my own heat.

I blow soft gasps of hot air, the chilling cold never quite going away.

Smoky air making art of faeries before dissipating into nothing.

Warm tears trickle down my face.

I whisk them away, but I cannot feel the touch.

I grasp at nothing, no one is here but my own

being.

Sifts of smoke sink gently into me.