Dear December, all somber in your tone. I will miss you, miss the feeling of you holding me back; it was only a quest you could attain. I will miss you and those smothered marks you left over me. Bruised after three hundred sixty four days, fickle hours, I was built on swallowing minutes. I could do nothing as you pried me open with metacarpus lodged in my throat, I was suffocating on seconds. I was counting them down, cutting the years of my life away. Your world is in my hands. I watch this pull gravitate around me and you, and you long for my air. You beg for that clock to strike just past that fifth day, but it’s so much easier- why is it so much easier to think of halting it all?