Cold Sanctuary

The air hangs thick with old wood,

candle smoke curling, settling,

even the open windows hold their breath

like the room is waiting to exhale.

Pews stand dark and worn,

the stone floor cracked,

a chill pressing slow through my coat,

a cold that stays past the door.

A candle flickers, melting

in the quiet that doesn’t leave,

something waiting without sound,

like a prayer caught and unfinished.

The church holds its cold like a secret,

a place caught between fire and frost,

where silence settles heavier than faith,

waiting for something, or no one at all.