Yet another parody of "the night before Christmas"

a love flat on its back

You may have a father who has been to Vietnam, and a grandmother who is slow and sad in all that she does. In her basement, stuffed in cardboard cigar boxes, you will find yellow newspaper strips, and letters that say the things your father never will.

It’s a maze, a winding cavern, endless and as round as anything tangible.

And still it burns, far and deep inside of you. A talent you know you have. A thing you know you could use.

and I considered another man's cologne, in my lungs, in his bed

You were the opposite of age, too small even to be compared to anything with mass. Too small, still, to belong to me.

You were always the silent type...