On the thirty-first

we were silent, waiting somewhere inbetween perfection

and chaos and waiting for an end to the noise coming from

all the wrong places.

Unlike the previous year, there was no attempt to celebrate.

Unlike every year that came before, there was no indication

of an easy transition.

When fall arrived without any changes, we inevitably drifted

into a second season where we inevitably lacked definition

and found ourselves

filling the increasingly longer nights with unspoken thoughts

and sharing unspoken hope in the increasingly shorter days.

So here, indirectly

addressed to you, is your first letter. Here is your card

and your gift. Here is all that I am able to give to you

on the forty-second.

Together we could celebrate on what is instead another day

of missed opportunities and another day of searching for

the life we discovered.

When winter arrives it may bring sounds that make sense

and bring gifts better than this poor substitute. If I could

I would give you love

and I would give you a good morning

and I would give you a sweet dream.