sweet apple cider

All I'm thinking about is them, and you, and spices that smell like Christmas Eve in Germany. My senses are imprisoned and all I can think about is that sweet apple cider, sitting, steaming in a mug, waiting, wanting me to sip until every ounce of me is drenched in Johnny Appleseed goodness. Pour it over my worries, refill until my anger is emptied and my sadness is dissolved away into a solvent of apple cinnamon. It warms my stomach, and heart, and head, and I'm happy. I'm happier than you were on the day your dad bought you your first piece of piano music, and I'm even calmer than your mother when she knows you are sleeping safely at home. Puncture my heart, bleed my veins, enslave me with your scent, all can be undone in one simple sip. The image of your face no longer ripples my memories and I've almost completely forgotten (except some days when I'm leaving the house without a key and want to tell you how much I love a certain morbid poem). All I'm really trying to tell you is that I'm drinking hot, sweet apple cider without shame and hoping against nothing that tomorrow it will snow glory from the skies and delay the long weeks before Christmas. All I'm saying is that if you could dance outside right now, I would dance with you, and I might even leave my apple cider behind for you, unless you might want some, because you like it as much as I do.