I could write a poem that no one could tell was for you,

or for anyone.

It would be about stripping bolts off bikes,

the trees swaying in a calm summer breeze

and a burning head full of knowledge;

the T.V illuminates a pitch black basement at midnight.

The long hauls with 12 gauges and aluminum cans,

and fresh baked wheat bread right out of the incinerator.

It would just be about a single snowglobe, snow falling, reminiscing winter

Ice freezing over the glass of cars, the ability to see every breath you take,

and sitting by a fire, with hot coco and people you love.

snowmen dancing inside to a musical tune I could not name,

more of a classical, brass instrument.

chiming the song in a dimly lit hallway as we slouch by a large oak door.