Ridiculous decorations dangle in the visiting room.
Red like blood.
He comes.
I don't want to talk
I hate Christmases, nobody to spend with
But him.
I want him.
He comes with a gift wrapped in grey paper.
The first gift on twenty years.
Books.
He knows me so well.
My gift is him.
My feast on the small bed we have is on him.
I see in his eyes he'll never deny himself to me.
Exciting and worrying at the same time.
Snow falls outside, he's warm near me.