Christmas in July. Whispy aired mornings laced with good ol' lingers of cigarette trails, earl grey with the cereal spoon warmly dipped within, unpacked luggages and unfinished loot, and the unmade sheets of yesternights. Day has hatched wide open at noon now and the pale undivided skies personify the large stomach of people dawdling their Saturdays below them. The gradual winds drape the atmosphere like clothes I see out my windows swaying from lines. Streets and sidewalks sink in looks of abandonment, schools too.

In every card and scene and wordplay, there is you and there you are. Wherever I am, you're the beautiful part of the ache. And you are my everyday's Christmas mornings.