I have never been kissed under the berries of the mistletoe,
always longing for it, too late to the party, the dark tree glistening with
strips of tinsel, good to look at, perilous to touch, the same glint I have
seen each time I look into her eyes and the slanting of her lips, to measure
how it might fit a kiss
I have never been
kissed under the mistletoe though I recall stealing one under the red glow of a
bar light on a street where we stood alone in April, long after the Christmas
season ended and mistletoe packed up to wait for new season. a kiss I still
feel lingering on my lips like this and all this time later, the taste of it so
sweet I crave more and more and more
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