Neal
It's that special time of the year. I have to act like their jolly smiles and ugly sweaters aren't a reminder of the day you get a year older. The winter gets colder and I try to block out the chilly pain with thin jackets but the thought of you keeps creeping in. It hurts to know that this is supposed to be the happiest time of the year but all I can think of is the morning of, when we rush down the stairs to see that glowing tree and how I won't care what I get but rather what you'll say when I speak to you again. When I wish you a good one, will you say thank you? Will you ask me how I am? Will we form a conversation from there? No, you won't care. I know you, you'll drink. You'll be at a party the night before and you'll drink until twelve o-one and your friends cheer for you and you'll think that's the height of luxury. You'll drink because you love it. I'll want to drink for an insipid excuse to hear your voice after all these years. You'll possibly miss my text and not care either way. But I'll worry. I'll worry like a friend does because I love you. Yet you don't have a care in the world and that's what worries me. This is the worst time of the year because for an entire month I am hiding. Hiding from the holidays but as soon as I walk through the door, a dancing light-up Santa greets me. Songs from the record player, awing about the season, is on replay. The tree is visible from where I stand and the signs expressing merry and joy decorate the foyer from head to toe. It makes me sick. I take a swig of my beverage and wish it was something stronger. I enter my room and try not to let the sorrow consume me but there you are. I can hear you in the music in the distance. All I want for Christmas is you.
YOU ARE READING
How I Love You
Poetry". . . . Then must you speak / Of one that lov'd not wisely but too well; / Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought, / Perplex'd in the extreme. . . ." -Act 5, Scene 2 of Othello by W. Shakespeare A collection of poems to the boys and men I hav...
