Dear You,
Last night, in between that unrecognizable silence after the first song and before the next, I would find myself reaching out for your hand, only that I did not see your hand, and more significantly, that you were not there. I did look for you, in the crowd, so exhaustively that it seemed appropriate to shout.
Breaking away from the party, I looked up and watched in awe as colors burst from the sky. While altering smiling with smoking, with resignation I told myself, "It is true. Some things are meant to be shared with you."
Merry Christmas, Darling. Mistletoes suck without you.
Cheers,
Me.
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