echoes of my thoughts

The window’s still open. Cold air creeps in like a memory I didn’t ask for. Smoke curls through the room. Is the cigarette in my hand? Or was that a minute ago? Or last night? He’s here— or maybe just the idea of him is. It’s in the walls, in the sheets, in my chest. Something cracked. Maybe a feeling. Maybe me. I thought endings were clean. But this one smears— like ash on fingers, like fog on glass. We're silent, but my mind keeps whispering: "Was this what you were waiting for? Or what you were running from?" I don’t know. I’m just cold. And tired. And the window’s still open.