December 25thDecember 25th and I've had 365 days to forget
your aunt's incredible roast turkey and braiding tinsel
through your sister's hair and interpretive dancing
to cheesy carols with your drunken Uncle Mark.
Firelight flickered across the curve
of your lips, the shadow of your jaw
and boy, you were beautiful,
all smoke and cinnamon.
December 25th and I'm ignoring the urge
to mess up your sleet slickened hair
and the fact that your card now says "from"
instead of "love".
I almost don't notice the way your eyelashes
glitter with snowflakes
and the fact that you look adorable
while you laughingly attempt to make a snow angel.
December 25th and I'm going to cheer
along with the rest of them
when you kiss her under the mistletoe
and then I'll gush about how sweet her embarrassed blushes are.  
The pudding is brim filled with wishes
and maybe this year they'll come true better
than the last, because it seems "forever"
was too much to ask for. i won't deny my nostalgiaIf I saw you now I'd tell you;
I still keep that letter you sent, under the hourglass on my bookshelf. I know that seven months have passed now and any normal person would lose it at the back of a drawer or in the stack of recyclable papers. But I'm not normal and it stays there, like the photo of us in the bottom drawer of my bedside table and the ridiculous card you made for my sixteenth birthday. Some nights I drag them all out, and when the blackbird starts greeting the morning I'm still pouring over the way you illegibly loop your letters and wondering if the dimple in your right cheek has managed to get any deeper. Some nights I wonder if, while you were promising never to leave, you ever thought I'd be the one to call it quits.
You said you felt we were running out of time and I said I didn't know what you were talking about. But I lied; I lied. I could feel the way the hands of time unravelled the threads keeping our hearts stitched together. I lied, but you could tell- in the










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Mature Content

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