You Are a Memory

I am thinking of you in the cold December nights, hoping your memories would warm me in places the chill seemed to have taken a perpetual hold. I think of you with my palms running up and down my arms and knees pressed to my chest, souvenirs sinking in my skin with a warmth that I cannot explain. And yet, for all its tenderness, it is not a warmth that stays, fleeing as soon as my body unfolds and stills, ripping out of me just when I start to lean into its sudden familiarity, leaving behind a cold that does not belong to these December nights. This cold that stretches beyond seasons and time, occupying every last inch of me and reminding me that these memories are here because you are not, seeking to fill your absence but only amplifying it. And I am realizing that memories can barely get you warm enough until they turn into yearning. 
December nights are when I wait for you to fill the empty spaces you left and wake up shivering with sun streaming down my face, wondering why I cannot feel its warmth.

Music, Emotions and Other Complex Things

If someone ever asks to explain what music is to me, I won't be able to. Not in coherent terms anyway. Because in all honestly, I don't understand much about it. Not the chords my favorite musician is hitting and not the notes of that particular part of the song I've been listening to for a week on repeat, the part that fills my chest with something indescribably warm and pleasant. And maybe that's okay, maybe it is not a necessity to understand every little thing about it to be able to love it but I wonder if it's normal to lean so heavily on music for comfort, to look for some sort of escape and tranquility and liberation in it all at the same time and yet not know anything about it except for the way it makes me feel.