Not in the mood for happiness right now, though I should be. Not in the mood for smiling and shopping and making you happy. Can't say I want to see you smile either. I'll stay here and look and type and pretend to read while I watch them mill and ignore and tidy their souls for the season. There's simply too much onrush as of yet to rekindle the warmth of giving. So I'll sit: selfish, silent, a little sad for my lack of shinyness. Maybe tomorrow when these bridges meet, if they do, I'll remember. Now, it's warmer to forget.

A abcess for a soul now.
Full once but now steady hands extract, extoll, relieve the pressure of feeling.
He has done this before I can tell; eyes moving quickly, watching the contents being replaced with emptiness
Watching what once bulged, sag under the weight of absence. Quick suture to stop the escaping poison, let a bit stay to teach the rest how to multiply. Eyes graze his work in admiration of the transformation, of his handiwork.