There

It's cold out there
The light looks tired of its own pace.

Why does it always feel like the cold is a matter of lighting?

Right after I open my eyes - always towards the ceiling -
I catch a glimpse of myself lying there
almost inanimate
my skin prickles as the light washes over it,
milky and heavy,
stitching itself to me with a tangle of threads
so that when I stand up, I get to feel like a puppet
every morning.

No matter how much black I put on
the lace is there
and whenever I look at it
I see the intricacies of panic.