I burned all the mistletoe

In a fire out back

I watched as it was consumed

In fiery throes, not of passion

But heat and anger.

I stood in front of the fire,

Warmer on my skin

Than any hands have ever been.

You stalk through the party,

Hungry eyes scan the ceiling, where

Is the sacred spot where budding romance

Consummates itself in lips met?

There will be none tonight

My mouth exists for smiles and words

Not contact with awkward chapped 

Skin shoved toward me

By giggling friends and expectant eyebrows

Raised in complicity.

There is none left.

You can get more mistletoe.

But I never put it out,

That fire out back.

I'll relish in watching the fire rage

As more turns to ash.

Better the mistletoe than me.