December 25th

Part title

   I still see these lights

Do you recognize them?

The same lights I saw reflect in your eyes the night I took you to Denton Square

Tiny constellations I could look into forever

Went out there to take care of thing

But you never left my mind.

Not once.

I visited the square just for the hell of it

I caught myself in tears while looking at this tree

Not because of the beauty

Nor the bone chilling Dallas winds,

But because every bulb, every flicker, drags my mind right back to you.

To that night we wandered the square, your hand in mine, breath fogging in the cold as we stood under this very tree.

You laughed at something stupid I said, tilted your head up to the lights, and they danced in your eyes like a private galaxy just for me.

I remember thinking I'd never seen anything more beautiful—those tiny constellations reflecting back, pulling me in until the rest of the world blurred away.

I came back here thinking I was just "taking care of things," closing some chapter, moving on. But standing alone now, staring at the same glow, it hits me like a gut punch:

I was wrong.

So damn wrong.

The tears came sudden and sharp, not from the wind cutting through or the holiday cheer all around me—no, it was the ache of what I lost.

The regret of words I never said, chances I let slip, the way I let distance grow when I should have fought harder to keep you close.

God...

I wish I'd held on tighter that night. Wish I'd told you those lights weren't the magic—they were just mirrors for what I saw in you.

Wish we could stand here again, your shoulder against mine, making new memories around the same old tree.
If you're out there seeing these lights too... I hope they remind you of the good parts. And maybe, just maybe, make you wonder what if.

Because I still do...

Every single night.