A weekly light — poetry, stories, and reflections from the strange in-between.

Hoodie Season

The air’s gone sharp enough to make you miss things—
not people, exactly,
just the way the world used to feel
before you needed a hood to face it.

Everything smells like smoke now,
like endings wrapped in comfort.
The trees shrug off their colors
and stand honest for once.

You pull warmth over your head
and step outside anyway—
because this is the season for remembering,
for breathing fog,
for pretending the chill isn’t getting to you.

Somewhere, summer’s ghost watches,
hands in its pockets,
smiling at the way we keep trying
to stay warm.

Lantern Note:
There’s something about October’s air — how it makes memory feel heavier and softer at the same time. Hoodie Season isn’t about the cold, really. It’s about that small ache between comfort and change, the quiet acceptance that everything good eventually asks to be let go — and how we learn to keep a little warmth for the road ahead.

🕯️ The Lantern glows every Thursday — a new poem, story, or reflection for those who wander, remember, and still look back.
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