December

Copyright © 2013 C.L. Mannarino
All rights reserved.

I’ll keep you warm.

We’ll hide beneath the covers and throw the sheets over our heads, dangling them from the ceilings beneath twinkling lights to match the stars and form our own constellations from their arrangements.

I’ll walk with you down city streets, the glow of the buildings and lamps and brilliantly decorated trees reflected in the glistening pavement, and wrap my arm around you, pull you to the side, when the sleeping-bag-bodies roll towards us from their cowered positions in the cruxes of buildings and sidewalks.

We’ll blow kisses from the airport and touch our fingers together from opposite sides of the window, holding each others’ eyes and trying not to see the trembling in our lips as we smile and whisper, “It’s okay, I’ll see you in the new year,” our breath fogging with our inaudible and unspoken words alike.

I’ll sit in our living room, cradling your mug of hot cocoa, my eyes wandering across the TV to the window, and imagine you, with your family, in the next building, your house dripping gold and red, your eyes filled with sunshine, and your face upturned towards the sky; I imagine you can see the same sky I can; I imagine we can still count the constellations together.

We’ll laugh and wipe rogue tears from our eyes when we reunite again in the post-holiday season, regaling each other with stories about our families and presents and not talking about how much we missed of one another because we can see it in our eyes, just as we can remember together the tininess of our apartment and the long hours we’ll have to take to make up for this time away from the world. I’ll remind you that this is okay by making us our favorite foods and curling us up beneath a blanket. This is the season of dreams for a few more minutes and neither of us wants to wake up in reality the next morning.

I’ll keep you warm.

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