The frost came through the window frame last night

The frost came through the window frame last night,

a white fur on the glass.

I went for the heavy wool in the back of the closet,

the one that still carries the weight of a body.

I shoved my hand into the right pocket

and found a loose thread and a ghost.

The smell of that specific tobacco,

sweet and burnt, mixed with a cheap citrus soap

you used to buy in bulk.

The fabric hasn't forgotten the shape of your wrist.

It’s holding onto a version of us

that doesn't exist anymore,

waiting for a warmth that won't be coming back.