Through the second story window,
I saw the lights on the tree.
The smell of motor oil passed by
as I crossed the dark street, haunted
by the eerie calm in the
overhanging lights. My hands smelled
of laundry as they stretched and met
the wooden banister, dusty,
*****, but I climbed the stairs
to your apartment glowing,
imagining the sparse presents
scattered around the tree to
mask the carpet, the smell of
half-burnt cookies in the air,
the forced glee in your eyes that
told me exactly how the day
had been. I knocked on the door,
and it opened, presenting
your smiling comfort face, a sigh
of relief, and a breath upon
knowing that I was home.