You're the type of guy that makes me
want to write poetry.
So, here I sit at two a.m. on Christmas Eve,
shrouded in the shadow of an unlit tree,
wracking my writers blocked brain.
Your lips feel like home and hot chocolate
with marshmallows beside a burning fire.
Your hands take me back to the fall days
where I fell as quickly as the leaves around us.
Kiss me without a mistletoe and don't break away
until the new year rings its way into existence.
Hold me against your ugly Christmas sweater
and be my person worth melting for.
I want to make you my new tradition.