Hand on Cheek

The nights are getting colder
The blanket suffocates me, but it helps me breathe.
The fire crackles and I wonder what is inside; what is burning?
A glass of wine, a cocktail dress.
A hand was on my cheek.
I am alone in a world of mahogany and maple.
Does the fire ever burn the wooden house?
And yet I wasn't alone, not so alone,
when he put a hand on my cheek.
They shouted Merry Christmas! Good tidings and cheer!
We needed stories about a middle-eastern birth
to vacate out of this snowy wasteland.
I pull the blanket closer.
The chimney roars as the cold wind instigates it.
There is one single present under the tree
from the night he put a hand on my cheek.
Left untouched, cold.
The carols on the radio are filled with static;
they are in a world far away from mine.
The reception isn't clear and neither is the message.
Why his hand on my cheek?
Everyone was dancing that night,
wine in one hand, and a man in the other.
Mistletoe on every door frame.
Men kissing men, women kissing dogs.
The kettle in the kitchen boiled,
the whistling driving me mad
until he put a hand on my cheek.
Why isn't the heat set hotter?
 Why don't I have more blankets?
 Where are my gloves?
What's in the present under the tree?
I see a serpent in the fire.
Why his hand on my cheek?
A friend danced into the tree.
A glass ornament fell, shattering.
Someone finally took the kettle off the stove.
Hot chocolate was served as the hostess cleaned up the glass.
He left to get hot chocolate.
And I still felt his hand on my cheek.
My eyes begin to burn as I stare into the boiling hearth.
The present is screaming, ferociously flaring the less I look at it.It's so cold; I can't feel my fingers.
 Where are those damn gloves?
I'm suffocating in this blanket.
My hands crack open from the cold.
Every noise intensifies -
and then he puts a hand on my cheek.

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