Ambition disguised as snow coats the city suits in a light dusting. Christmas in the city…or the collection of bridges and turnpikes we call home with the vague flavor of discomfort in our mouths.  Christmas laced with martyrs’ tears, glowing as icicles outside shop windows.  The cold here wears a roledex and diamonds. As the time gently but surely crumbles away like Christmas cookies, I yearn to be even half as permanent as the flakes on my lover’s silver hair as he builds another world for me.

Hexagonal childhood spreads its honey over my spreadsheets. The facts were all I was asked for, and they smell like ocean and regret. Shadows compute in the closet, the blue screens scathing the disillusioned shadows whenever their electric blue light touches them. The numbers are fossilizing in amber honey. I have weighed myself on the balance and found myself wanting. So many digits away from heaven, and every new year is a countdown to hell.