To an old love (I’m still a lonely star): A poem 

I touch memories of that December’s crevice; it seemed 

love couldn’t be violent as a nightmare turbulent stream 

But I learnt, even broken hearts can wade, then swim 

Why does December seem like a picnic, like watching a film? 

I can’t think of Santa being cross, not even if he is at a loss 

I take the gifts gratefully, and give the wrappers a toss 

December gets all over your skin, like make-up gloss 

And I am never tired of greetings even if I wish to pause 

I think of the waves in your hair, and the charm of decades ago 

How I could stick my lips to your mirror; it melted my core 

It is never a crime to fantasise, and drink of love’s lore 

But December came like a tornado, and I aged four score 

Pain is a mild aroma for the stoic, though a wound leaves a scar 

You can rid it like a half-smoked cigarette and cough out the tar 

You once gave me tremors, heart-bolts, but since, I’ve raised the bar 

I bade that December bye, and my butterfly net still has a lonely star