in a winter market (1)

I wasn't supposed to be there; 
But then, I never am. 
We walked along within the lights, 
The pageantry, the crowd -- 
And she was warm and beautiful. 
I didn't understand: 
But I was just pretending then, 
Holding my breath -- 

We talked awhile of music, 
The instruments we played; 
She said she had three sisters, 
All of whom were taller. 
I could not fathom, though I tried, 
Just what it was that made her burn -- 
A winter market, Christmas lights, 
And every sort of wonder.

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Beleaguered Servant

Owen Servant is an online poet working in a style that's been described as "compulsive". In real life, he is an actuary, because being a poet wasn't unpopular enough.

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