The last time you looked at me with love
was somewhere between September,
where summer was nearing its end and
autumn was saying hello.
The last time you said you loved me
was Thanksgiving weekend, when you reminded me
how your world only consisted of my presence and
"grateful" was an innocent understatement to define how you felt.
The last time you held my hand
you wrapped my fingers in every crevice of your grip
squeezing it tight as if
never wanting to let me go.
The last time you kissed me
was a passionate concoction
embroidered on the satin fabric
of lust and love.
You picked me up from behind,
spun me around my living room
and kissed me against my front door
as if there was going to be a next time.
But Christmas has presented itself like a shooting star:
visible but barely there, flashing by in a second only to steal all your wishes.
And it has come to my attention that it's been far too long
since you've even allowed my name to roll off your tongue.
The last time you talked to me* was at a mutual friend's party,
where my heart became nervous, an all too old sensation,
to even have the courage to talk to you
wondering if your voice would be warm even with the belligerent wind outside.
The last time I felt your embrace
was the exact same day, given in an awkward stance,
ending with you walking out the door where
winter awaited to kiss your cheeks because I had no right to anymore.
And this time, you didn't look at me with love, or kiss me from behind.
This time, you used your hands to push me away,
and that's when it crossed my mind that
those three little words abruptly became Latin on your native English tongue.
Though those were the last times I had any signs of your presence still physically in my life,
they weren't the last times I dreamt of you, longed for your hand (or kiss or hug), or loved you.
But as a new dawn rounds the corner, I solemnly swear today -
today will be the last time I miss you.
*Or at least I'll try to.
- g.d.
I wish you a good life, Love.