And while the slightly bitter chill of December quietly carries to me the various sounds of midnight from outside, I write about you. I write about how, at times when the wind seems to make everything dance lazily, my hair would blow over to graze ever so lightly upon your shoulder and I’d will my hair to have nerve endings. I write about how the sound of your laughter would resonate in my head for hours after you’ve stopped, making the world seem a little bit better even if for a short while. I write about how the nearness of you would fill my lungs with a feeling I would never in a hundred years want to breathe out. I write about how I would tell you even if I know every word and every wish will stay in their cage that is my head.

And in the morning, everyone will read my words. Everyone except you.

In the morning, you will write about someone else.