What if you yearn for Christmas so bad, that your entire
being aches with anticipation?
What if you run so fast, so long, that all you can hear is
the rush of blood in your ear?
What if you wait for a kiss so long, that your lips freeze
in a perpetual pout--cold and blue?
What if you plant a seed, wait for it to grow, and tend the
soil till your nails are shadows?
And then, when it’s finally Christmas Eve, when the finish
line is clear,
What if your craving is suddenly less dear?
When the walk is almost over, at your doorstep,
when the lips turn to you with a soft exhale; what if your
heart is stale?
When the leaves are green as envy, when the flower is ready
to bloom,
what if you realise that spring came too late? Will you call
it fate?
Or will you call it time? As you wash off the grime from
fingers that were,
Will you blame me, for failing to adhere? Or will you
remember,
as you breathe into the vaccum of my lips, that a kiss is
just a kiss,
and the red ball you pined for is now lost on some loft,
forgotten,
the river ran off with the sea, long ago, their affair now a
mere memory.
