I think Christmas might always
remind me of you.
Already as I read
The Night Before Christmas to T
(it’s his favorite right now),
I think of you and your dad,
who I never got to properly meet.
Sometimes I sit dangerously,
thinking that somehow you’d see
and you’d have to say something to me
because it would bother you that much,
that you’d forget that we’re pretending
not to know each other.
I’d get under your skin again.