I'm writing tonight because I'm not quite sure
what else to do with my hands. Usually you would
hold them, but I left six months ago and I think they've
been cold and dry ever since. I know you're doing okay,
but the snow is almost gone and I think you can come
home. It's so cold outside and I know your arms are
around her waist and your face is in her hair, but I don't
think she loves you like I do.