old poem writing !!

Dear December,

Your presence, like a melancholic melody, weaves through frigid air. Bright scars, corroded into your skin like rust, are the stories of battles fought and won with yourself. Short brown hair frames your face, and behind those glasses, cerulean eyes hold secrets—blue as the midday sky, holding a world within them so intense and unwavering, it is a challenge and an invitation all at once.

You wear grunge like an anthem, a rebellion against the mundane when the music that fills your ears echoes in your stride. You're a symphony of contradictions: delicate yet fierce, introverted yet magnetic. And I, a mere spectator, stand always in awe.

Your vagaries—the way you tap your fingers on paper, sift your hands through your hair—become my favorite verses. Each irritant is a stanza, and I commit them to memory like they are sacred, turning them into a song I find myself humming, even when the music has stopped.

When you hum, I find solace in the dissonance. Your laughter is a chorus of broken chords, resonating in the quiet corners of my heart. And the moments when you lose yourself in thought, staring out the window—those are my crescendos.

December, you're a masterpiece in minor keys. Your scars, like notes on a staff, compose a haunting melody. trace them with my fingertips, mapping the contours of your strength. And when you speak, your words—imperfect, raw—become my favorite sounds.

I am falling. Not only in love but into your universe. You're my gravity, pulling me toward the sublime. Your habits—the way you leave books open, pages dog-eared, or how you insist on mismatched socks—are constellations guiding me home in your arms.

December, let me be your audience. Let me unravel your complexities and find beauty in your imperfections. For in your scarred skin, your ripped clothing, and your quiet musings, I would willingly drown in the stark ocean of you. And I can't help but think what a privilege it is to love and be loved by you.

Yours,
November.