Dear Santa,

I write when the year exhales,

when clocks loosen their grip

and the city forgets to rush.

Windows glow like quiet thoughts.

Somewhere, a child is rehearsing a wish.

I’m rehearsing a sentence

that hasn’t found its breath yet.

This letter has no ribbon,

only space where ideas pass through.

Dear Santa,

I don’t want gifts this year.

Nothing that needs a place on a shelf.

Dear Santa,

I’m asking for what arrives uninvited

the moment a song begins to speak.

Dear Santa,

I don’t need more than this page,

more than a voice learning its own shape.

I’m searching for the quiet push,

the unseen hand that turns a thought into sound.

Let me hear what waits behind the silence.

Let me trust the first note, even unfinished.

Somewhere between doubt and patience,

a melody is choosing me.

If anything still moves without being called,

let it move through this.

Dear Santa,

I don’t want gifts this year.

No weight, no shine, no proof.

Dear Santa,

leave me the courage to begin again,

and the clarity to follow what appears.

And if you pass by other windows tonight,

pause where creation happens quietly.

Hands open, unsure, still trying.

Leave them the same gift.

A sudden knowing.

A line that arrives fully formed.

The feeling that the next song is possible.

Dear Santa…

Dear Santa…

Dear Santa…

Dear Santa,

don’t bring me gifts this year.

Bring me the reasons to create.

Dear Santa,

let music find its way through people,

and give our days a pulse of meaning.

Dear Santa,

Fill my life with melodies.