A path that was etched in my soul,
long ago,
is followed again,
your hand in mine,
bound for bliss,
sailing past snow covered peaks,
I am quiet,
but content.
The snow has fallen in love with us,
surrounding us wherever we go,
framing our faces,
and the places we choose to while away our Wednesday afternoon.
Christmas is coming,
and I haven’t slept for weeks,
counting down,
by the minute,
to the moment I can grant your every wish,
gentle genie,
who used to fancy freedom,
but has found contentment in the cave of wonders.
I am choosing slowly,
from a menu I’ve already memorised,
acting scandalised,
when you remark,
that there’s only one choice for me.
I know it’s true,
stifling a smile,
as you place our order,
and the snow leans against the window,
eyes warm and full of wanting.
I want the same thing I always have,
but your hands hold mine tightly,
as if they are holding prisoners.
Maybe,
I am a prisoner,
passionate criminal,
eager to escape,
but not in the way you think.
I want to run away,
with you,
to that little place,
up the mountain road.
I want cider in my glass,
and your last name on my passport.
My love,
you know my order,
so tell the waitress,
and let’s be done with the waiting.
