Doorway of Cold
The night grows thick until it breathes like steel
against my skin, a weight I cannot shake.
The shadows shift as if they long to feel
their old sharp purpose, learning how to wake.
Small stings arrive—not wounds, but whispered signs
that something colder moves along my frame.
The room tilts inward; darkness redefines
its edges, folding close around my name.
A presence settles deep behind my ribs—
no blade, but pressure thinning out my heat.
It unthreads warmth from all the life it grips,
a quiet loosening, strangely soft, complete.
And then I know: this cold is not the end,
but inward-opening door, a different bend.
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