This isn't Paris, there are no lights here
But the stars that sit vulnerably above the dark streets at night.
Reflecting on the drops of rain that fall with no order filling the potholes and cooling the air.
Even the desert gets cold in December, and the cold makes everyone feel lonely.
So here's to the bowl of glitter on my desk.
The letters written that will never be sent.
The twin sized bed unkempt and cold by the window
And the lights that stopped working weeks ago.
To scarves that warm necks and hats that warm heads
While there's nothing to keep my heart from nervously pounding every time the dog barks at night.
Here's to coffee tasting and wrestling over the last brownie,
Friends that become lovers and lovers that stay friends.
The lamplight is dim but it's there all the same
And as long as my shivering hands can type I'll be writing these letters I'll never send.