Winter in Lungs

Winter came early this year,

not outside—out there it’s just rain and late leaves—

but behind my ribs.

I wake to the radiator hissing,

My breath fogging the inside of my own mouth.

I wear two hoodies to bed now,

not because the apartment is freezing

But because you aren’t here to steal the covers

And I don’t know what to do

With so much extra blanket.

My chest feels like a sidewalk in February,

salt-stained, ordinary,

Everything that touches it slipping.

I keep waiting for the thaw you promised—

“It’ll feel lighter soon, I swear”—

But the calendar flips and flips

And the air still bites when I inhale.

Friends talk about moving on

Like it’s a bus you simply choose to catch.

I keep missing it,

scarf too tight at the stop,

Lungs burning with each small attempt at hope.

Some nights I crack the window wide,

let the real winter rush in,

Fill myself with something colder than you.

My breath comes out in pale ghosts,

rising, disappearing above the sink,

while the ice inside my chest

pretends it’s never going to melt.