Maybe I should wait
under the mistletoe.
Wait for her to come
and grab my hips.
Bring me close for
a kiss.
But she glances at
my thin wrist.
With a frown on her face,
her pace now comes to a jult.
Scans my emotions,
her eyes now full of disgust.
The cuts open again.
All that's left is
wilted mistletoe and tear stained
pillowcases.
(m.c.)
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC