Wanting to be your Sunday morning,

I still agreed on a Friday night.

Wanting to be the messy bun,

My blow-dried curls look almost right.

And when I dream of long night talks,

Your weekly “hey” still draws a smile.

The ticket prints for a 2-hour train,

But tell me, where’s your extra mile?

I guess it’s the tragedy my heart now tries to fix,

Of not being your December twenty-fourth,

But always get the twenty-sixth.



Céline Aere

A little too existentialist to be a law student. I also believe in true love.