Grief
I'm dreaming of a white Christmas
with nobody crying,
yet you have eyes for me
under the tree, still,
clever waif.
I'm dreaming - with maybe just
a little crying
for the lengths gone to
to reproduce you. (It's a sighing
in the flurries, Mr Stewart.)
But the world outside my pane
shan't drain
the comfort of simple things:
a glowing hearth and a ringed hand
cupping a brave, warm pubis.
The next day: leftovers and
good news,
good news.
VIEW 10 of 10 COMMENTS
The cosmos freaks you out? I can see where you're coming from, though, yes.
I don't think there was ever a possibility of the guides not taking me back at that point; it literally felt like an impossibility because they had everything so effortlessly in hand. BUT, maybe if they hadn't taken me back I would've died in my sleep that night