Can you feel warm

when the cold learns your name?

This year,

the wind didn’t knock.

It came in like it lived here.

I was disappearing in plain sight

under warmth, under words, under routine,

and no one noticed.

I learned to dress for it,

layers on skin,

layers on thought.

Keep moving.

Keep polite.

Keep smiling

until it looks like you're healing.

They said spring comes next.

But winter didn’t get the memo.

It stayed.

Took the chair across from me

and asked if I’d noticed

how quiet the room became.

I said I was fine.

I said I was adjusting.

I said “pass the tea”

because words are safer than truth.

Some warmth is artificial.

Some prayers

are just noise

you tell the silence

to feel less alone.

Bring me more layers.

I’m still cold.

Even when it’s warm,

the wind remembers.

And if spring ever arrives...

really arrives...

I might not be here

to feel it.

Because this time,

I folded myself

so neatly

into the routine

that even I

can’t find the exit.