Frozen Echoes of Tomorrow

Yeah... I thought I left it in the drawer.
The ticket from July.
Before the snow started falling indoors, I mean.
It’s funny how a date on a stub can just... anchor you down.

I keep the broken radiator
because it rattles like your breathing.
Stupid, right?
Friends ask if I'm getting out,
as if grief is a flu to sweat away.
The milk expired days ago,
and honestly?
I like the sour smell.
It fits the room.

And the calendar says tomorrow is coming,
like it’s some kind of prize.
As if the sun has an obligation to rise
just because the earth made another rotation.
Nobody warned me that time doesn't heal shit—
it just stretches the distance
between the last time I heard your voice
and the silence that’s eating the furniture.

Found your toothbrush yesterday,
green handle, frayed at the edge
from rushing for the Brighton train.
I didn't throw it out.
Just set it down,
like you're getting coffee downstairs.
It's been eight months,
not that dust on the sill is counting.

Rehearsing fights we never had
in front of the microwave.
"You always leave the butter out."
As if a petty argument
means you're still rolling your eyes,
calling me dramatic.
God, I’d take the drama over this.

And the calendar says tomorrow is coming,
like it’s some kind of prize.
As if the sun has an obligation to rise
just because the earth made another rotation.
Nobody warned me that time doesn't heal shit—
it just stretches the distance
between the last time I heard your voice
and the silence that’s eating the furniture.

Snow sticks to the windowpane,
thick and heavy.
The world stopped breathing, too.
I'll stay on the couch,
where the streetlamp hits the floor—
right where your shoes used to sit.
I won't move them.
Not yet.
Maybe... not ever.