The rough texture of his jacket still lingers in my hands. But it touches nothing but the air. The warmth that it brings still lingers in my fingers, yet frost slowly paints the edges of my nails. The smell of his scent still lingers near me, but I only find the cold, stale air.
I’m wearing the sweater you always wanted me to wear. Why are you not wearing yours? Why am I always filled with coldness and emptiness? Nothing has been the same since you burned on that winter day.
Four Seasons 
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