Snow had fallen to sheets of frightening, sliding driving conditions, wondering whether the Christmas tree lights would turn on at night. The pipes froze ice to the led. I read the words you said left on my side of the bed, and now red is what I see through a tall glass of blood-red wine and meds three days before Christmas and ten days after an anniversary. The lost conversation spread thin white lies to soft goodbyes. Departed you did to the future. Ten years to the day it took you to return and stay on Christmas Day.
(© 2021 AC)
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