Hi, I hope morning reached you. It's cold where I'm standing but you wouldn't ask, naturally. I'm surprised I'm alive, the rest is bearable.
Heard Christmas send bells to the white iced tips of your welcoming carpet, my dear.
I came to be poetic but I find a struggle in the way words crinkle the paper of my salted
notebook but it's fine, normally I would speak of your cheeky jokes or smiling weeps.
Lately I prefer melancholy since it doesn't strangle my pitch when I speak in sorrow's accent,
well there's that misty river over my uncaressed cheeks but that's also my remedy
for lending you my ears; now I can't hear myself being sad, sadness is just platonic happiness.
Anyhow the road snakes, how are you? Been a while since stars died behind your eyes,
I can't see them but comment once in a trillion comets about your whereabouts.
I'm living to see another festive sound escape your chappy lips and hang the beanie of your artifical warmth to the leather of my numb gloves.
Merry Christmas anywhere you wish to be, I won't be coming back for a while, not
like you'd expect me nonetheless I'm glad there was a point when you pampered me in comfort.
See you soon, my precious...