December Boy

A heartbroken poet, a half-written poem

Awaiting insights and completion

While reading into your tedious fiction.

Your eyes don't light up my furnace

Anymore than your nature don't grow into my woods

Cliché apology, precarious debt

The lies to your broken truth

And the truth to my white lies

Not my saviour, just an understudy 

A grifter to a breathtaking lead. 

You were like snow in late winter 

And I was rebellious as summer 

Decided that I wanted to devour you,

Well you and a glass of cold freezing wine. 

So, tell me December boy? 

Did this cold harlot melt your heart? 

Like fading into the wind, the smokes of the cigar.