While the snow gently falls on the slopes and the people in their scarves and bundled up jackets, with their gloved hands holding things. Holding each other. I want to hold your hand. You stand there smoking a cigarette and staring silently off into the distance. I hold myself. I tell you about memories, fond ones of skiing, snow banks and daring. You quietly stand there, taking another drag as if to say you're waiting for me to say some magic words. I don't know what they are. I tell you what I want hoping to coax your desires from your lips. You kiss me instead. It's too cold for eskimo kisses and sloppy wet smiles. I failed. I want to go back to the car and the warmpth. It's ok with you. You give me shelter instead of what I really want. You.
So I wait. Quietly. Filling the empty spaces with Abraham Lincoln and other inside jokes. Occationally I get you to smile and I feel as though I haven't completely wasted your time. No I haven't wasted your time at all. You seem to say to me that I matter. Seem to anyway. When I tell you how grateful I am to be by your side you reach for my hand and I feel accepted. And all I've given you is everything I am. Becoming whatever it is you shape me to be with your desires. I adapt well. I leave behind whoever I am to become for you some other. And it's as if you have nothing that is your own. Nothing you are willing to share. Nothing you want me to know about you, to accept as part of you. I see daily the man who wants to strive for better. Here's what I want for Christmas. Keep letting me share myself, but I want to know why you do everything you do. Trust. I violated your trust once. I hope some day to earn it again.
One crystal clear, shining droplet; catching the fire from your lighter as you smoke again, shimmers and leaves a frozen and glimmering trail down my cheek. I've opened myself to you. And it's as if you don't even care. You still haven't noticed. But I feel guilty for not giving you more of myself. I want to please you. I want you to care. Like everyone; I want to matter. This is what the season must be all about. Not love.