first christmas without you.

artificial trees lack seasonal character,
no scent of pine to tickle allergies,
no needles jutting from our big toes,
but we still litter them with blinking lights (just half)
and traditional doodads,
pieces from our childhood,
and that god awful tinsel, your finishing touch.
instead of carolers, we rely on television
to eat up the family noise,
loops of constant christmases
on hollywood sound stages
where it'll never snow.

i'm still terrible at wrapping presents.
i still hate marathon eating.
in fact, nothing's much different,
i'm just missing you
and that rush of midnight excitement,
tearing paper from itself into tiny pieces
on your bedroom floor,
you, on the edge of your bed,
i'm standing between your legs,
arms clasped around your neck,
a "merry christmas, baby" muffled into my chest.

i didn't think i'd feel empty on christmas,
never thought i'd throw myself to nostalgia,
memories i never cared for in the first place,
but now suddenly, i'm craving them
and you.