An older offering...

I guess you'd call this a poetic narrative...? Something I wrote maybe a year ago. I like parts of it still.

Boston snow falls gently
as cars rush by
on wet tires, their lights
flashing brightly, briefly.

The streetlights dressed
in wreaths mark every
fifth step or so, and
the snow seems dirty.

I long for my home.
The clean snow over corn's
remains in a field, the
ice on the trees

on my way to your
house, where I could
drink hot chocolate
in a green sweater

and hold your hand
as we lie under a
blanket. Hot breath and
warm lips on windchilled skin.

We'd share a coat under
clear skies and a full moon
on a crisp, snowy night,
our breath fogging away

like the car exhaust
from the taxi driver
that nearly clips me.
I wonder...

Does he have someone
like I have you?
Does he love someone
as I love you?

Somewhere, far away
from him, from here,
is there a girl like you
for him to write for?

Or his he doing it
all for himself, struggling
against hope to make his
American dreams truths?

I hope his Christmas brings
him love like that which
you've brought me. And that

he comes to understand the
kind of joy that
I know from winter love
of foggy breath,
green sweaters, cocoa, and you.


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