I would leave cooked and milk for Santa; I would rather leave these for you, if you do not hold it against me, this dietary diarrhea we must endure, how not to get fatter or older or maybe somehow remain wise, this time of year always haunting me, for fear I’ll end up with coal in my stocking when I hope for so much more; perhaps don’t deserve, like the bicycle I wanted for my birthday, or love I need yet cannot find. I would leave a gift for you on your doorstep, yet know you’d hate me if I did, no happy times text message, no Christmas card mailed from some remote and unrecognizable location; You would always know who sent it, even if I’ve refrained from using my name, mile and cookies left on a table near the tree, not for the fat man, but yet a sign of love I can never get enough of, even if you give me coal, even if you hate me for wishing you peace. I would leave milk and cookies if only I could.
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