melted

and crisp apple strudels

horses with manes scraggly and knotted, waiting to be brushed out with stiff fingers from cold winters;

honey drizzles from the cream ceramic teaspoon tea spoon, nearly spilling over onto the glass tabletop;

rhubarb crisp in a sweet spring that only exists after softball games, fresh out of the oven piping-hot;

gingerbread spices baked in dark cookies, molded and gingerly iced into reindeer and spice ninjas;

all of these things that i could call favourites:

you, the moon, us (but mostly you) in moonlight, swaying to a newly nonexistent northeast breeze;

you, one room, alone in the middle of the night, telling yourself that it'll be okay once the sun rises;

you, a dream, within me (maybe it's all in my head this time,) beaming alongside the overhead lights;

you, unseen, a treasure and treat wrapped up in tissues and crumpled paper, working in late nights;

everything good has its faults.