Red wine stains her lips--
another year, gone
"Time is relative," she tells herself,
pours another glass.
"A year is a just a rock orbiting the sun at blinding speed."
She can imagine her hair blowing back with the force of Earth's orbit.
"You're drunk," someone(more) laughs.
Outside her mind the cosmos turns
in its infinite patterns
Stars die at their own pace, the planets turn according to science,
or else the imagination of a vast, unknowable god.
The wine is tart--her nails clink on the glass
The human year is over.
What has she completed now that she hasn't before?
"You fell in love," says someone, but who, she cannot say.
Yes, but somewhere a galaxy is born and her feelings diminish
"You got promoted!" Of course, but two years ago she did too.
"It's almost midnight." The stars burn, lonely
She closes her eyes and sees the turning of the galaxies
"HAPPY NEW YEAR!"
Warm wine sloshes down her chest. Laughter rises.
She opens her eyes and sees the universe condense to this moment here--
the stars in the eyes of the man who loves her
he wipes off her dress and in the moment a sun is born
"Welcome back," he says,
how far she has traveled.(less)
The earth spins into day and night
circling the sun into seasons
I ride on the merry go round
looking for a reason
every turn brings new look
atoms move and molecules change
(more) rain becomes snow and then evaporates
every breath in and out
up and down goes the ride
how many dawns are there left
I hope to be loving and kind
before I rest
bright white lights on bright white tiles and bright white plastic the sheen of your surroundings is almost too much to bear, but you bear it still. cashiers somewhere (its difficult to see) take your money and your name and your products and tell you "congratulations!"; across a little(more) black screen, green letters spell out "ANOTHER_YEAR!" and you know youve made it, yet again. somewhere something falls to the ground with a crash and breaks into smaller pieces but the bright white lights make it difficult to see.
the back of my throat feels like its been burned by some kind of dirty fire. neither the purification of tribal rites nor the sterilization of bunsen burners, this fire offers something strange and fuzzy and unclean. the smoke is thick and oily, leaving residue along the curtains and branches it climbs up. traces.
another year to mourn and groan and suffer the illness of existence. how pessimistic. another year to enjoy flowers and clouds and pairs of deer caught off guard in the cold and misty hours of the morning. what will they do with the rest of their day i wonder.
the grass grew wild and feral without anyone to cut it; that was one of the many chores we collectively neglected to see done. it began spawning large packs of flies, yellow and brown, not black; and they would hover around like a ghost in broad daylight. one morning i saw deep depression in the grass, as if there had once been six large boulders sitting in there and they were now no more. such deep cavities in the light and swaying sea; blades packed into the ground and caught up in swirling motions as the weight of whatever sat there laminated them over the dark and seamless night. (less)