before the snow falls

(I’d like to assume that my annual Christmas letter goes to you, as I have cemented these feelings I have in stone.  It’s a quick escalation but nonetheless, it isn’t December, so I have to address this as a prelude to a wintersong.)

Have you imagined what it’ll be like to have the Christmas lights dance on your floor, beams of light streaming on the marble? I have, and it being the only glow coming from the living room is a sight to see, and I look forward to it every year as I come home to the open arms of family.  But I remember your story so clearly, and I could imagine a vision otherwise.

As we bid our silent goodbyes in a few weeks before seeing each other again, it’ll be no doubt at all that I would not cease to think of you.  You’d be sitting in front of your Christmas tree only feeling the embrace of the cold as it wraps around you like a blanket.  It isn’t a safety net, but a comfort zone you retreat to, as you watch the pallid lights glow against your skin.  You utter no words at all, even if a million things are screaming to let out at the back of your mind.  You keep to yourself in the silence, as you bask in the evening light alone, with a carved smile as you pass the salt.

If only you knew that I’m somewhere else, staring at the same, big, old tree whispering to you the wishes I hold in this heart of mine– that I long to be beside you, for you to cry on my shoulder, for you to ask me if everything was okay.  I wish I could save you from the silence you’re slowly dying in, and to pull you out of the knots you’ve roped yourself into.  Of course, you haunt me everyday, a recurring memory of you flickering in my head like a busted bulb.  A recurring memory of the pain in your face, the invisible delight I long to see instead.  But I wish you could hear me, I wish you knew that someone out there would willingly take some of the load and carry it with you instead of everything just being shoved into you like a punch in the stomach.

All these words may not matter to you, but they do to me.  If you could only hear the incessant pleading to let go of whatever’s holding you back, then everything may be all right.  It’s impossible to wonder about the end of all this, but that’s just who you are.  You make everything stop, as if you’re telling me you’re the only one that matters.  And it’s true, as I admire you from a distance, a fragile soul only wanting to be loved.


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