It’s the winter. It’s the winter that tells me you are at my door.
I knew it this morning when I left, pulling firmly on the front door handle as I twisted the key. The door is stubborn and tricky; it won’t lock without a bit of force. It is worse, in the cold.
And it was cold outside, cold in the way that winter’s should be cold, where to stop moving is to stop entirely.
But you never stop, not for the winter, not for me.
I call you insidious. You inhabit me without intention, grace by accident, and I find you at the periphery.
When I turn from the door, you are there, almost.
And then you spin away.