Love Like Winter

Forget December. It won't be better than I remember it before.
–Andrew McMahon

Starving and single in the grocery store line.
He’s always hungry for the holidays.
Pushing the cart toward the checkstand
he looks down at his hands
to see the scars of a first date turned upside-down.
It was December of '01.
Rubber hitting ice.
A blaze of red as the SUV swerved, spun, squealed
off the road and into the deep grove of evergreens.
There would be no second date.

The abundance of breath freshener at the checkout counter
reminds him of shared Altoids,
of flirtatious kisses
in December of '05. He offered her the wintergreen mint,
but its bitter taste caused her to return it
in the most romantic way possible.
As her bright red lips locked on his, she slid the mint into his mouth
as if she had never wanted it in the first place.

Pulling the money from his wallet he thinks of
December of '06 sitting on a couch in his parent’s living room.
Until that day the green buck
signed by his favorite band
had hung above her bed.
He removed the red paper from the present,
tearing the last remaining piece of her in two.
The dollar bill now sits framed on his desk.
A hallowed reminder of a love that wasn’t worth the cost.

Out of Tune

Is that your music?
I was going to ask you
the same thing. You beat me
to it. Look! We watched as costumed children
walked in circles. Princess, Cowboy, Clown, Vampire,
Superman, Witch. Each with a violin,
playing their respective tune.

Tightening my strings,
the strain
nearly causes them to break.
You raise your bow as if
to strike.
Our thoughts on tempo are varied.
That’s okay; you can be
a princess;
I can be
a cowboy.

Now I’m Superman; flying; I trip
on my cape.
My violin collides with the cement.
Shards of spruce shatter across the sidewalk.
The strings are all that’s left to hold its precious neck
to what remains of the body.
Hanging by a thread, you help me to my feet.
You do not look me in the face.
Your words are mumbled.
Maybe the witch can fix it.