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| As a child I believed in Prince Charming |
| and happily ever after, lying awake |
| at night holding nothing but a candle. |
| I would whisper to the moon and shiver |
| to its serenade as the cold-hot wax melted |
| down my hands and dripped onto my naked |
| moonlit body. |
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| I believed in Santa Claus, six-foot-two, body |
| hard as stone, eyes tender as clouds flirting |
| with me and with the night. |
| It was easy to wish on every fallen star (I collected |
| them in my pocket) and even easier to wish on those |
| still in the sky, as long as I told myself |
| they were falling. |
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| That is what childhood was all about. |
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| But I've long since emptied my pockets to the night, |
| and I've turned my face from the stars to the city |
| lights, and I've spent too many Christmases alone |
| to believe that every evening sound was the landing |
| of tiny reindeer on my roof. |
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| Yet the man beside me is proof of the breeze |
| as it scurries past my window, reminding me that in his kiss |
| there is the feeling of melted wax upon my flesh |
| and much more. |
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