Third of December
It’s the third of December and the wind cuts deep, Your sweater on my shoulders feels like a promise you didn’t keep. I wear it anyway, though it shakes me apart, ’Cause it still knows the shape of you better than my heart.
I saw you today with her, sunlight in your grin, And that stupid teenage rush came crashing in. My breath stuttered, my pulse went wild, Like I was sixteen again, wrecked and beguiled.
She held your hand like she’d practiced the right, Like she’s the one you’d text at midnight. And jealous heat rose sharp in my chest, A quiet little storm I couldn’t suppress.
Your sweater warms nothing now but the hurt, Threads heavy with memories I never deserved. Still, I clutch it close when your name starts to burn, Winter growing colder with every turn.
I wanted to hate her, hate you, hate fate, But all I could feel was the ache you create. Standing there frozen while you walked away, Taking all my December warmth with your easy smile that day.
And when you passed me, you said quietly, “You still have my sweater?” As if the question didn’t shatter what I was trying to hold together.
Now the season is heavy, the sky turning gray, And I’m stuck in a moment that won’t fade away. You’re laughing with someone who fits your weather… And I’m here—empty-handed in the cold, not getting any sweater this 3rd December.
