Frost on the window isn’t weather,
it’s handwriting.
Someone, something,
scribbling messages in a language
your breath almost understands.

The patterns aren’t patterns.
They’re maps.
Blueprints.
Veins of a creature
that only exists when the temperature drops
and forgets itself when the sun returns.

Sometimes the frost looks like branches,
but the trees outside swear
they’ve never grown that way.
Sometimes it looks like feathers,
but no bird claims them.
Sometimes it looks like a face,
but only when you’re not looking directly at it.

The window becomes a thin sheet of memory,
holding the cold like a secret,
holding your reflection like a hostage.
You lean in,
and the frost leans back,
matching your breath with its own
slow, crystalline exhale.

And for a moment,
just a moment,
you’re not sure
which side of the glass you’re on.