The Leftover Winter
I have two blankets: one warm, one warmer. On nights I sleep alone, I choose the latter. On nights you choose to sleep beside me, I realise the warm one isn’t warm enough.
You fall asleep soon after lying down, oblivious to my wakeful shivering. You hug me before sleeping but enjoy your space post that, much like I do, on most nights. But it’s a cold night. I sneak closer to you, trying my best not to disturb your fragile sleep. I come for the blanket but stay for you. Your warm arm flinches on the touch of my cold fingers. I retract and lie on my hands for a while. When I return, their temperature matches yours. Holding you, I sleep like a baby, hoping so do you.
You are not here the next night. I have the warmer blanket to myself. Yet I miss shivering and not having an excuse to crawl into your blanket. But it carries your smell, which makes it warmer still. I end up wrapping myself around it. Soon, I shiver and cover myself with the one that offers less warmth. I thank it all the same, because it lets me hold you. I cherish the leftover winter, wondering how I’d hold you when you are not here.