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.