White Christmas Love Letter

I'm writing to you from underneath a streetlight, watching the black curve of the asphalt road lead away. Soft whispers of wind passing dark and silent while the rain falls, white music over the rooftop of the world like silk and dust and static in the dusk. I look for the light flooding across the open sky, a red blush that makes me think of you, the rosy hues of your cheeks underneath the soft hush of snow on a Winter's day in Florence. The white blanket's tread covering you like a child with a cloak.

I want to lay you at my feet with that white Christmas, the soft flight of your heart beating with mine, your chest pressed to me and our hands entwined under the pale oblique fall of rain and ice in the dark. Flowers bloom here for Christmas, but not for me without you. Across the world, the blossoms fade and die with cold, their loveliness more beautiful for that fragile flame, extinguished under a damp, light cloud. A moment lost is precious simply for being a memory.

Here, the air shivers in the heat, and I shudder somewhere under the hull of my ribs with the thought of touching your lips. A thread wraps the silk bones of my cage and links me to you from far away. We are connected underneath the curve of us, somewhere beneath our hearts and bones. Loveless oceans exist between us, but cannot darken our sway. I want to send you lullabies and Christmas wishes, and send you letters marked with no return address. But I don't know where you are.

I wish for a white Christmas, spent wrapped in you. Your gentle heat pulls at me from lightyears away, but I cannot reach you. I can only wait for you to come back to me. I hope you're happy where you are, that you smile at that slow fall. That you're somewhere drinking sweetly in a tavern on the street, buying fairyfloss in a marketplace, or watching the city lights speak merrily of satellites and holiday dreaming. But the summer heat, here across the world; our hot and sultry winters, and golden Christmas sun kissing the ground until the horizon quivers - our humid hands softly searching for the touch of friends and lovers to share moments of passion and heartache and laughter - our sunkissed, sunswept Christmas is beautiful too.