Hues of Blue

snowflakes in my eyelashes,
a bed of fresh, soft snow under my booted feet,
trees as bare as a newly born babe.

my fingers have gone numb
and my cigarette falls on the white, wet sheet.
the flame died and I am depressed.

I don't bother to relight it.
I save it and wait for it to rekindle,
patiently awaiting to inhale it's poisons again.