Seven minutes to December,
dabbling with raspberry tarts
and feeling bonhomous
He makes me dance
when there is no music
he is my mantra
our conversations are the lyrics
spoken freely,
woven giddily into sweet trust, with
no shadow of lust for any other
unlike his hands,
the thought has not touched me
living as I do, every day
just to make him smile
His music fills me with such a rush
like warm honey crumpets in my belly
Tomorrow,
we will take photos of everything,
except perhaps
the pie we stuck our fingers in
December Song
İcrisstiena
Honorable mention
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