A tale I wrote
God you're sexy
with all your flesh wrapped up
in scarves and hats and jumpers
and gloves and that thin little coat
underneath that massive coat,
the one with the arms far too long
that make you look as proportioned
as a monkey.
Watching you hold a hot chocolate,
your smile setting off fireworks,
tells me our season is back again.
Your mittens, stained from
ghosts of mulled wine past,
your teeth the set of fairy lights
hanging behind our TV set
I'd never dipped chips in hot chocolate
before I met you -
my waist ageing from 34 to 36 since
our first trip to the bonfire.
My belt has never been happier.