Numb in I Kept the Pieces That Hurt the Most

The numbness arrives quietly, like frost settling over a field that has already forgotten the sun. It does not ask permission, it simply replaces warmth with a careful, deliberate absence. Thoughts slow and drift apart, as if each one has lost the strength to reach the next. There is a strange clarity in it, a silence that feels both protective and hollow, like standing in a wide winter landscape where nothing moves and nothing demands to be felt. Even memory seems to cool at the edges, softened and distant, as though it belongs to someone else. In this stillness, time loses its urgency, and everything becomes suspended in a pale, quiet cold that neither hurts nor heals, but simply remains.