The Ornament I Kept Forgetting | The Winterloop Chronicles: Part 1

Storytelling, Emotional, Emo, Christmas, Alternative Metal

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STUDIO

I reappear like an unfinished sentence on the mantel,
a crease in the year you never smoothed.
Someone forgot a ribbon and I kept the whole evening’s remembering,
so I practice being present in places I no longer own.

I used to be a name that fit in mouths like candy,
wrapped in mirrors and applause and leaving-room smiles.
Now I’m folded in a stocking that never got hung right,
tucked in the seam where sorrow learned to tuck itself.
People say “merry” like it’s a prescription I can swallow,
I lick the label, taste the calendar in my teeth.
Each year the front door opens, and I step through rehearsed,
but my memory’s a blank page glued to the last scene.

I check for footprints that aren’t mine, I test if the tree remembers my name.
The house keeps the script and leaves me the stage,
and I line up my lines with a tired grin.

I’m the ornament you always said you’d keep,
hung on the branch where you said we’d sleep.
I come back every season like a borrowed tune,
spinning the same trouble under the same old moon.
(keep me / keep me / keep me)

I float through the rooms like a guest who knows the gossip,
sitting at banquets composed from polite forgettings.
They pass platters of memory while I nibble the edges,
I smile in parentheses so no one reads the footnote.
There’s a ginger man on the counter with a gap-tooth grin, he looks surprised to see me,
I nod like a well-mannered rumor. “Have you seen the wreath?” they ask. I point to last year.
My hands are clean of a body I can’t place, but stained with the habit of wanting.

Another bell toll, another confused guest,
and my name slides like a coin across the mantel glass.
I try to remember why I didn’t leave for real, but the why is a room with a missing corner.

I’m the ornament you always said you’d keep,
hung on the branch where you said we’d sleep.
I come back every season like a borrowed tune,
spinning the same trouble under the same old moon.

There’s a pocket at the back of the closet for things that time can’t make tidy.
I fold myself into the seam and count down the faces I forgot how to say.
Sometimes a childish laugh slides under the floor and I feel like I almost existed,
and almost is a dangerous thing to feed.
Do I want to stop coming? Do I want to be left?
I can’t tell if staying is mercy or a mirror.

You ring the brittle bells and open up a socket in the night,
I don’t know how I died, the instruction manual’s missing.
I am learning the emergency exit in reverse!
I hang where regret finds purchase, glass and thread!
You light a candle and I remember how to burn without heat,
I try to roar and my voice becomes ornaments falling in a perfect storm!

They sweep the glitter, sweep my footprints into a corner,
the mop writes my absence across the floor.
I catch myself smiling at a photograph I don’t remember being in.

I’m the ornament you always said you’d keep,
hung on the branch where you said we’d sleep.
I come back every season but this time I learn to look,
to fold my own ribbon, and slow the loop.
(keep me / keep me / keep me) or let me go, this year, if you keep me close.

𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙠 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜!💙
✦༺❖༻✦༺❖༻✦༺❖༻✦

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╭━━━━━━━━━━━━━✦༺✦༻✦━━━━━━━━━━━━━╮ 𝑴𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒄, 𝑷𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒂, 𝑳𝒚𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒔 & 𝑨𝒓𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒃𝒚 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐌𝐄 © 2025 © 2025 All Rights Reserved 𝙎𝙤𝙘𝙞𝙖𝙡𝙨 ＋ 𝙎𝙥𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙛𝙮: https://hyperfollow.com/JUSIME ╰━━━━━━━━━━━━━✦༺✦༻✦━━━━━━━━━━━━━╯ 💙💚Story:💚💙 The Winterloop Chronicles is a story about a ghost that reappears over the Christmas days, not knowing that or how he d*ed and not remembering how often he came back. This is Part 1 of 3. Playlist: https://suno.com/playlist/9537131e-6b60-4679-87c0-41ff9dc7241e ✦༺❖༻✦༺❖༻✦༺❖༻✦ I reappear like an unfinished sentence on the mantel, a crease in the year you never smoothed. Someone forgot a ribbon and I kept the whole evening’s remembering, so I practice being present in places I no longer own. I used to be a name that fit in mouths like candy, wrapped in mirrors and applause and leaving-room smiles. Now I’m folded in a stocking that never got hung right, tucked in the seam where sorrow learned to tuck itself. People say “merry” like it’s a prescription I can swallow, I lick the label, taste the calendar in my teeth. Each year the front door opens, and I step through rehearsed, but my memory’s a blank page glued to the last scene. I check for footprints that aren’t mine, I test if the tree remembers my name. The house keeps the script and leaves me the stage, and I line up my lines with a tired grin. I’m the ornament you always said you’d keep, hung on the branch where you said we’d sleep. I come back every season like a borrowed tune, spinning the same trouble under the same old moon. (keep me / keep me / keep me) I float through the rooms like a guest who knows the gossip, sitting at banquets composed from polite forgettings. They pass platters of memory while I nibble the edges, I smile in parentheses so no one reads the footnote. There’s a ginger man on the counter with a gap-tooth grin, he looks surprised to see me, I nod like a well-mannered rumor. “Have you seen the wreath?” they ask. I point to last year. My hands are clean of a body I can’t place, but stained with the habit of wanting. Another bell toll, another confused guest, and my name slides like a coin across the mantel glass. I try to remember why I didn’t leave for real, but the why is a room with a missing corner. I’m the ornament you always said you’d keep, hung on the branch where you said we’d sleep. I come back every season like a borrowed tune, spinning the same trouble under the same old moon. I’m the ornament you always said you’d keep, hung on the branch where you said we’d sleep. I come back every season like a borrowed tune, spinning the same trouble under the same old moon. (keep me / keep me / keep me) There’s a pocket at the back of the closet for things that time can’t make tidy. I fold myself into the seam and count down the faces I forgot how to say. Sometimes a childish laugh slides under the floor and I feel like I almost existed, and almost is a dangerous thing to feed. Do I want to stop coming? Do I want to be left? I can’t tell if staying is mercy or a mirror. You ring the brittle bells and open up a socket in the night, I don’t know how I died, the instruction manual’s missing. I am learning the emergency exit in reverse! I hang where regret finds purchase, glass and thread! You light a candle and I remember how to burn without heat, I try to roar and my voice becomes ornaments falling in a perfect storm! They sweep the glitter, sweep my footprints into a corner, the mop writes my absence across the floor. I catch myself smiling at a photograph I don’t remember being in. I’m the ornament you always said you’d keep, hung on the branch where you said we’d sleep. I come back every season but this time I learn to look, to fold my own ribbon, and slow the loop. (keep me / keep me / keep me) or let me go, this year, if you keep me close. 𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙠 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜!💙 ✦༺❖༻✦༺❖༻✦༺❖༻✦

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