March. Some year.

You told me you loved me at Christmas,

Gin soaked and wide eyed.

Lips slack with the Christmas lights

And the contrived wonder of it all

I knew it wasn’t love,

just enough of something

For you to want me to think it was.

I never said the words back.

Not once

intentionally avoiding

the weight of the thing.

I’ve never liked Christmas,

except through your eyes

In the smell of too many after work drinks and cigarettes,

In the stubborn bloody hope of it all.

I left a party on New Year’s Eve to be with you

Just drunk enough to think it wouldn’t matter

Arriving at your door at three minutes to midnight

Like some bad, made for tv, romance movie

The year gave up its promises too soon,

Everything shed on the doorstep

The fever of novelty

Builds a shrine for the lonely.

By March you really loved me.