That feeling where you want something so much that you would consume it if you could. Breathe it in through open mouth and lung. Taste every minute particle of air as it rushed past your tongue and down into the dark depths of your bodily cavity, wishing you could store it there for later warmth and understanding. 

Trying to make sense of everything you haven’t had or have had and have forgotten. 

The potency of that would-be destructive Christmas day delight. 

The delicate drawl and the slight emphasis on the wrong letters. 

The gentle lilt in every breath as the lights go out and there’s no day left. 

The warmth of every promise and hot whisper.

I think you’re not meant to worry that it will most likely destroy you in the end. 

Nothing is as important as you make it.