Last time that I let myself live in our love affair,
it was seven PM,
and I was sobbing on the steps of Euston station,
the taste of your kiss, still fresh on my lips,
your leisurely pursuit of pleasure seemed so cruel to the girl who fooled around and fell in love,
she fell into a storm,
counting down the clock’s journeys until you would return.
There is a distraction ahead.
Turkey dinner and party streamers,
presents beneath a plastic tree.
I am in pursuit of the perfect Christmas,
awakened too soon,
two hours to eight,
knocked senseless by sweet dreams of my siren,
I am lost,
living in our love affair yet again,
letting you get underneath my skin,
my plans for the season parting like the waves Moses met,
interrupted and inching closer from my intentions as you creep back in.
I am playing Russian roulette with my rushing emotions,
wondering if it will injure me to indulge my howling heart for a beat,
or if I can survive sending a response to your morning text message,
that has too many kisses for this stage of our relationship (all of which are welcome, by the way).
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