Would You Be My Santa?

Of course you are going to blame me.
But do remember I asked you so many times.
Had you given a few more pictures I would have been happy,
But you made me think as if asking your photos is an unpardonable crime.

Disappointed, I had to obsess on just one picture, clearly you left me no choice ,
And I ended up postmorteming it like a curious kid tearing up his toy,
Now, if you are going to curse me, please be my guest,
But you didn’t give me your time today and an idle mind is devil’s nest.

I always find something mysterious in your pics,
I fail to name what’s so mystic, so cryptic about it,
They unfailingly strum a few strings of incomprehensible emotions,
And it’s so frustrating when I can’t perform its root cause analysis.

So today determined, and with a lot of time in hand,
I pondered for hours on your imagery,
I had to find out why I need to see it again and again,
So I closely gazed each and every part of you, that I could possibly see .

First and foremost I went to the most glorious part of your pic,
Baby, you shouldn’t have smiled.
You seldom smile in your photos, you should have again kept your rose petals zipped.
But of course you showed your pearls in this one, and they are my restlessness’s culprit.

And that chin, Ahh.. My God.
Why is it so… delicate,
I just wanted to feel its crests and troughs,
But screw this phone’s flat surface.

And I guess you were quite happy,
Your eyes, they are so uncharacteristically half closed,
Your last one’s were so large, they kept twinkling at me,
as if asking me for something,
I would try staring back at them, but would always lose.

And tell me about your eyebrows girl,
Those long lines over your eyes’ kajal,
If I were to describe them, I would call them the protector,
Eyes safe under someone’s ‘Anchal’.

And please keep your cheeks and nose safe from me,
One day they will definitely get pinched or squeezed,
Don’t roll your eyes, have you ever seen a plum or a red cherry,
Don’t you desire to touch and press it a little?
Then why judge me,
If I yearn to do exactly.

In the end, a few words about your hair,
I tried counting each and every strand,
But I lost count somewhere,
between fifty eight and fifty nine.
Ok so, they are long, they are illustrious,
But I won’t say a word more, let’s just say they make me envious.

See, I don’t believe in Santa Claus,
So I don’t wish for anything,
But, this right there, trust me baby,
is the cutest Santa I have ever seen,
And if you were to be my Santa every year,
Right here right now, I would change my belief forever.

So would you be my Santa? PLEASE.

~RavS

## A poem describing a girl in an old photo. The photo above is (obviously) AI generated (Credit Meta AI) and acts as placeholder for the real photo. ##