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letra de the christmas steps - parenthetical girls

there is no snow and there is never snow, but we make do. the frost-starched blades of grass that break beneath our steps leave two sets of fresh footprints across my mother’s long suburban lawn. i call these our christmas steps, though not out loud

looking back, there are places along the christmas steps where anxiety got the better of you, or where the strides of my longer legs outpaced yours. and thеn there are placеs where our paths intersect as a single set of prints. that must be where god carried us, you whisper

you yawn a sympathetic yawn, and i watch as the breath leaves your lips like an empty word bubble. there’s nothing left to say. come on. it’s christmas

we reach the screen door and enter silently, instinctively stripping to our stocking feet. the air is heavy with the scent of broad and fathomless candles which spill a chemical pine that by evening’s end will have sent you to bed early with a migraine. but not yet

i brace as my mother plays unwitting party to an unspoken annual tradition, a holiday within a holiday, rendering a dysmorphic sentence on this and each succeeding year. you look healthy, she says. the groundhog sees its shadow. come on. it’s christmas

we are both, as ever, impeccably underdressed. when my nose bulbs and blushes ridiculous, stayed in the sudden rush of electric heat, you reassure me with credible conviction that, in this light, no one can tell. then once more in dead earnest

frankie lymon sings it’s christmas once again, his immaculate castrato [?] the last vestige of sweetness left beneath the ribs of both of us. and blood runs lovely down [?]’s mouth. blood is everywhere you look. the scene is positively cloudy with it

moonlight nears from (?) the frozen ground outside, and through the bay windows i can still see the soft drop shadow outlines of the christmas steps, their meandering intersections marring the otherwise virginal turf between the cul-de-sac’s contours and the five-lot (?) glow that frames the front door

it’s been an awful year. twelve fretful months of hunger and weakness and resignation, along with something that the both of us are either too proud or too old to put a name to

but there’s a brief relief on christmas day. the moments on the lawn where our parallels converge and entangle into the tracks of a single animal, where the discrete rhyme of our footfalls falter on one another, like h0m-nyms

[?} the romance and derelict parking lots beneath the sodium vapor of street lamps, when the air is still and clean and culpable, and there’s no suggestion of the natural world to distract you from your very ordinary solitude, the sentiment surrounds you. there is romance in the vacancy of a bleak mid-winter morning, a grey and drafty acknowledgment that in the seven hours of sunlight remaining nothing of lasting value will be accomplished. this is not profound. just as there is romance in moonlight radiating against two frozen pairs of footprints as they dodge and wind indelicately across the cold expanse of suburban lawn

we take a moment to pity those before us, those who died having never known such transcendent pleasures. we pity the year past, pictured at sixty frames per second as its legs buckled beneath its own lumbering weight. we pity ourselves, as is customary, with several light and lilting sighs. come on, you mouth without a sound. it’s christmas

- parenthetical girls

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