Draft
It is dark on the evening of the 24th
save for the yellow glowing of the tree
in the corner. The night is silent and holy
and we are calm, quietly stretched across
the couch like two layers of the same cake.
The church across the street is empty.
You find the store on the corner closed.
No cars and no people and no room at the inn.
You and I cannot figure out what the rest
of the world is so busy doing.
Bare skinned against each other, I have traced
the contours of your back with my fingertips
enough times to have your body’s map memorized;
I ask, but you can’t recall where the scar
on your left shoulder came from.
Last year, this time, it was snowing;
Here you interrupt me with a kiss;
you have taken my lips between yours
enough times to speak for me
for years.
You say against my cheek that it’s late -
we should go to bed; I follow you
to the bedroom recalling every December 24th
that came before, and settle into my side
of your bed between you and my ability
to keep myself from crazy,
knowing I was officially grown.
