Christmas Time

I miss you most at Christmas time and it's hard to know why, other than this: with each December I feel the loss of you so keenly. December when we first kissed, December when we'd discuss all future Decembers together. And fantasise of curling together on some remote sofa, vaguely aware of the tree and the twinkle of another Christmas. And brothers and board games and brisk beach walks, having long forgotten the circumstances which led us there together. Accepted and affectionate and, oh, beautifully orchestrated. Carols in quaint churches, and more Spanish love poems, love like topaz and love like carnations. But the shadows were always there, they grow deeper all the time. Each fantasy, each gnawing reminiscence crumbles yearly; the Yule log burnt to ashes. I miss you most at Christmas time, and it's hard to know why, other than all this.