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And I still love him.
After all this time.
My heart still longs for him the way the ocean yearns for the shore.

Relentlessly, hopelessly, pitifully.

No matter how many times the ocean draws away,
it always finds itself crashing back into the arms of the cold, unstable shore.
who's afraid to

trip trap
kick scratch
stomp crash
whip lash
spit screech
run siege
tear crack

trip trap

over my bridge?
There's a man that's not so jolly
dressed in blood with strings attached
white fur trim and silver shackles
boots of dreary, dismal black.

Rides a sleigh of bone-white reindeer
whips them just as he is whipped
by the arm of blank-faced sales -
doesn't get one lousy tip.

There's a singing, chanting snow-man
mourning for the melted dead
when the sun shines in the morning:
nothing but the ice they bled.

Candied children seeping chocolate
drowning in the liquid stench
bodies limp with festive wreckage
waiting for the last event.

Woolly ropes of Christmas jumpers
looped and knotted at the throat
round the necks of carol singers
singing till they keel and choke.

Then the sprigs of velvet holly
kick their legs and stamp their feet
dance with but a show-girl's honour
reading cheap lines from a sheet.

And the man who's not so jolly
laughs so kindly for the crowd
underneath his hat he's hurting
the red sky his scarlet shroud.
 Nov 2014 mark john junor
Natalie
do not date a girl
who writes.
she will internalize
everything,
carve poems
into your eyelashes
instead of
kissing them,

she will analyze you,
calculate age
from the rings
your coffee cup
leaves
instead of refilling it.

she will memorize
the way your
lips curl around steam,
but not that you
take it
two sugars,
no cream.

she will read your
palm instead of
holding it
against her chest.

she will not
blink
when you leave,
because she is
already
romanticizing it.
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