Snow

This is a starter post, nothing too special about it. Thoughts?

White, blinding snow. The warmth of the house behind me crawls only so far, then is replaced by the white, cold breeze. The snow stopped falling late last night. In this small retiring street in on the outskirts of Glasgow, an untouched blank canvas covered all the ground in sight. I am the first to tread a path through the early morning sun warmed snow. I hear sleigh bells, but only in my head do they ring. Reaching my un-gloved hands from the pockets and warmth of my thin winter coat, there’s the smooth lighting of a cigarette between my teeth. In a park, I’m masked by the condensation of my breath on the morning air and a haze of white grey smoke. Last week I turned twenty-seven. Not a sole here knows. Do I now begin growing old?
    Upon entering the warmth of the house through a falling veil of snow, I find myself being greeted by a bearded, but smiling face, and a hand shake. Withdrawing out of my knee-length winter coat, I look shyly at the chirpy friend who meets my gaze. Within a matter of hours the shyness was gone, along with my sober sombreness. By this time, in fact, we’re running low on alcohol and conversation. So we left for the white night beyond the door.
    We walked through the park. It’s late, and the ground, as well as the air surrounding us, is white. Moving slowly forward, our conversations are trivial, and barley listenable. We are drunk, we are cold, and we are tired from the past year. We’re moving towards a bright shop light. Open 24 hours. The snow has given in.
    Calls from the couches where we sat. Half-empty bottles litter the surrounding floor. Drinks leak softly into the darkening carpet. I begin to believe the stains will never come out. An imprint on the mind. We’re loud. We’re forgetting.
    My watch is broken. My phone is off, with no charge. The clock is elevating, and deflating in front of my swimming eyes. I count the passing hours by the cigarettes I roll. The smoke’s all I’ve got, as I am now alone , drowning in a bottle as cold and as mean as the winter trees.
    Beer for breakfast, who’s here to scold? I have yet to smell the fresh morning air of the outside world. As I crawl into my jacket I notice the untouched snow on the path, and the road.
    It’s white.