festive

A ball of pain sits
knotted up
at the base of your throat
unmoved by all that
coughing and wheezing,
as desperate as futile.

in the goodness of their heart
they recommend doctors and meds
(not knowing where it comes from).

To their credit, yes, it is probably
the winters.
The season when all your losses
well up in your eyes and
nestle in the pit of your stomach,
wrestle with half-forgotten memories
that leave you shivering
in the middle of the night
under layers of the kind of warmth
solitude can muster.
The bitterness of coffee fails
to sweeten the resident taste
of self pity.

It is that time of the year
when the festive spirit finds you
seeking empty houses
that were home once.
The carols of silence echo
across the halls of your heart
and a room of one's own
seems more spacious
than you would have liked.