In the season that forgets color, I thin to the width of a breath held too long. The room keeps its furniture, but the chairs have stopped expecting me. Snow presses its palm to the window and I match it, palm for palm, until I can’t tell whose cold is whose. An old song drifts in from some other life, asking about days when doors stayed open and voices didn’t have to travel so far to be heard. The melody settles on my tongue like ash that once was paper. I swallow, and nothing answers back. Most of the year I wear the numbness the way water wears the shape of its glass, perfectly, without complaint. But when the light tilts low and the air forgets mercy, the glass remembers it is only borrowed and I leak through the bottom, slow, silent, until even the leak forgets it was ever someone.