My Attire

The cold air slaps my face as I step out onto the cracking concrete steps—two pairs of socks, boots, leggings, thermal, hoodie, coat, gloves, beanie. The cold air still manages to sneak its way through the microscopic, fine holes in my attire. The many minutes I spent styling my hair now seem as though they ceased to exist, and my toes slowly grow numb inside the wool and leather that hug them. Jittering teeth and lips losing colour. After a day, I walk back up the concrete steps, and I am met with the embrace of warmth and the smell of burnt wood. Winter.