If someone asked where I’d rather be,
I’d say in his arms, secure, but free.
Leaving this merciless winter in my wake,
just to hold his hand, and smile for his sake.
Isn’t this season meant to be beautiful,
rather than teasing, woeful and rueful?
I couldn’t care about how much snow will fall tonight,
instead I’ll worry about him, and whether he sees me at morning light.
Though family may be at my side, friends prepared to see me through,
they’ll never hold me nor cherish me, not the way he promises to.
Like the blank, beautiful blanket covering the ground outside,
there’s something barricading my heart, prolonging my stride.
Compared to the scene outside, the blizzard encompassing my soul is deafening,
enough to reverse my heart to something melancholic and trembling.
For now at least, I’ll pretend I’m at peace,
as if there’s nothing burdening me, no loneliness beneath.
At this season I dream, dream of his warmth and love,
what his skin would feel like against mine, sleeping light as a dove.
Sometimes, gently, when no one is there to pry,
I’ll let the melancholy pour out, feel my conscience float high.
But of course, on occasion, I smile,
because the moments we share between interfaces prove everything worthwhile.
This Christmas will be like all the before,
I’ll sit there praying, begging, pleading, to find him at my door.
Yet again I’ll open each precious and thoughtful gift,
but I’ll be dying inside again, imagining how it would feel to be kissed.
I’ll follow my family, laugh at every poor joke,
wondering about his own family, his ill-mannered folk.
Yes, if someone asked where I’d rather be,
I’d get up and leave them, run to him… just flee.
and if someone were to laugh, or even smirk,
I’d be ripped apart like love doesn’t work.