It has been 309 days since last Christmas. 309.  On Christmas eve, you sent me a message and wished I would be in your bed when you woke. I replied, and I wished that you'd be under my tree. On the 25th day of December, you wished me a Merry Christmas and and asked me if I had forgotten how tall you were (I had not seen you in over a year), there was no way you would fit under my tree, and signed it with an 'x'. I laughed and told you that you could try anyway. 7 days after christmas, the 1st of January, you wished I was with you and kissed no one at midnight and I thought, oh my god maybe this time things will work out. Maybe this time you'll be mine. And in between trips to your favourite spots, the sand underneath our feet, constant messages, photos, mornings in your arms, funnily enough, you were. Mine. Though it was never in the ways I wished you were, you still were. And then you weren't. Messages were ignored, I didn't understand what you wanted, you didn't understand what I wanted and suddenly 6 months passed without seeing your face. There are 55 days until Christmas, 54 until Christmas eve and this year, you'll wake up with her in your bed or maybe you'll make do and crouch under her tree and you'll kiss her when the clock strikes 12 on the 1st of January and I will wish that you were here and **** the time for changing who you were to me and who I was to you.