The Monk

The monk knows cold. Built his life inside it, named the dark, called it enough.

Then she arrived. Warmth he had forgotten was a thing. Butterflies in a gut that had forgotten it had one.

He opened the door himself. Buried the walls with his own hands. That was new. That was everything.

She asked for space while he was still standing in the entrance. Hands empty. Door open.

The light didn’t follow her back.

The monk knows cold. Cold knows him better.