I thought I might die, when I spied the diamonds she had put aside for me,
clasped in sugar paper under a plastic tree.
I got lost in my luxurious imagination,
picturing her, braving the piercing pinches of the winter’s wind on her fair skin,
her collar high around her neck,
hands digging in her pockets for warmth and comfort as she carefully examined each shop window for the one thing that would keep the attention of the wayward wretch she’d left at home.
It was winter,
but I was back in the summer of my life,
given more time by the divine blessings of her affections, and it wasn’t even the material possessions or dramatic (and quite welcome) proclamations of her devotion that did it for me,
it was the way she’d watch me writing, late into the night,
my mind just about managing to make sense of what I’d missed for the longest time,
and how she’d wait by my side,
gently coaxing me to the comfort of clean sheets,
a kiss, or three, along tired shoulders,
until I gave in to sleep and my dreams of diamonds.