It is funny, how awful you felt the whole time. It really is, because you aren't naive anymore, and you know that Decembers hurt the most, despite its deceptive beauty. The cold seeps into your bones, and you smile through the war.
It is funny how you finally have realized that the only thing that has changed is the day. You are still angry and still not doing the things you want and still aching like a fragile rose. Except the petals have long since withered, and it is only your thorns that keep you alive.
You have done well. The heartbeat graph almost went straight three times, but like the cat, you have nine chances. Sixth is a dream, sixth is a dream, sixth is a dream. You probably will use it all up this time; floundering and sad, but you accept me all the same. You accept my flaws and you have done incredibly well learning to love who I am, who I will become, what I have done to you.
Sometimes, you let me rest my problems of a year ahead onto your shoulders and pretend you know what you are talking about. You smile at me; what you will become in the future. You smile at me just the same, like she did at you two years ago.
We are always asking for forgiveness from our younger selves. We feed them with lies of a better life, but like wine, we age backward and intoxicate. We are our undoing.
So, this is a love letter from me to you, of the past.