‘A festive song for thy ears’, Sang the jovial busker; Brimming with gratitude, With pennies of silver Or the coppers from well-worked hands, The heavy gold of the rich; Once weighed down pockets Generously giving. ‘A festive song for thy hearts’, Sang the jovial busker; Playing with precision, With clarity and care Or the subtlety of pristine art, The blending sound of the voice Soothingly warming.
Here we are as unclaimed lights fall into the room. Here we are with better names, old letters peeling after the other. Here we are, now made of changing lights and indigo dreams. In the very last month and for the first time, I claim the body of an Egyptian lad and you are the sun god, washing over me like a brand new day. For the first time, December doesn’t feel like choking on poppy blossoms. For the first time, December is freeing as scattered pastel lights.
For the first time, my love, December rests on my skin — and it doesn’t hurt.