I miss getting together for Christmas.
Well, I miss getting together.
Perhaps next year.
But we both know
a bad case of Saudade,
of spilled milk, something souring.
Too many tongues bitten,
too many words that wound
too much pent-up, unwound.
We stand by the winter pond,
Look each other in the eye,
Then look away.
That dead fish look,
frozen in time.
Well, great to see you.
(you are dead to me).
Let it be.
Published January 24, 2022 on Spillwords.com – Where Words Matter
