The cold has a memory —
it lingers in the corners of empty rooms,
settles into the spaces you once filled.
No matter how many layers I wear,
it finds a way to my skin,
a whisper of what used to be warmth.
The windows rattle,
the floor sighs under footsteps that aren’t yours,
and I tell myself it’s just the season.
But the truth is,
it’s not the winter that chills me —
it’s the memory of you.
Apr 26, 2025
Apr 26, 2025 at 9:40 PM UTC
The cold has a memory —
it lingers in the corners of empty rooms,
settles into the spaces you once filled.
No matter how many layers I wear,
it finds a way to my skin,
a whisper of what used to be warmth.
The windows rattle,
the floor sighs under footsteps that aren’t yours,
and I tell myself it’s just the season.
But the truth is,
it’s not the winter that chills me —
it’s the memory of you.
Some absences aren’t loud — they settle quietly into everything. This piece is for the ones we still feel even in their silence.
