It's a bit too cold
in this ugly Christmas sweater
made badly, quickly by my grandmother
when she did such things for me.

I'm sitting in my room, legs pulled to my chest
shivering through my long pants and wool
finger shaking, palms clammy and cold
but somehow managing to type out these letters to you.

You tell me you're so oh so warm
where you are right now, in your little house
just on the very edge of the forest
cheeks rosy and sweet, just like the rest of you.

Brr, it's too cold outside
to be this giddy
but I am regardless of the weather
you kiss my head in the dark.

And I wake up, then, all alone
teardrops dripping from my eyes, nose running and frozen
in this horrible Christmas sweater
and I don't think I will be warm ever again.