Joshua Toumu’a

Love you like a Christmas party, ugly sweaters and all,
off-key crooning through stiff drinks, lips wetted.
As romantic as a drunk beach bonfire, in the way
that it is strongly advised against by almost everyone.
You: tinsel-strewn, fairy-lit, red-faced and baubling with desire,
and I: hot-synthetic, neon-shedding, unearthed from the spandrels,
faithful like a dog and seasonal like allergy.
Doff your sweater and go take that smoke break! 
Return tasting of nicotine and cream liqueur, back now slick 
from dew drops rested on plastic lawn chairs.
Wash your hands and come back to me!
Drenched in the confidence of a drunkard and
soaked through to the heart like a sugary-pink stain
on your brand-new shirt, I meet you ‘neath the
forever halo of your streetlight-lit neighbourhood.
Look! The moon has finished his drink and is slipping
down the skyline like a rosy-cheeked suitor retiring to a foreign bed,
waking to his inamorato waltzing through the bedroom
donning work-brand polo, half-dressed in golden light, curtains drawn.