I walk alone at this very street, head down and wool mittens inside coat pockets. I hum a tune from a childhood memory, and play along the confetti littered upon the ground. My cheeks pinked by both liquor and winter's kiss. The slow walk I take, to both bed and home. The kaleidoscope of memories replaying in short breathing minutes. These maudlin moments dangle in the stratosphere of another day ending.



I still read the poem you gave me. I picture the curve of each vowel as I recite them and see you face me with a question I could not decipher. But it's all in my head, as it often does in perpetuity. These silhouettes I'd gild around the ideas of people, only play well with shadows upon my bedroom wall. By the time, I'd cast the light and wake up from the dreamstate, it's only fractals of would-be people I'd keep stoically in my heart.

Why do we harvest climbing vines of attachments, when it ends up clawing around the very neck you keep your head above the drowning waters?


I don't know either. All I know is, I miss things I shouldn't. And I'm walking home, without any idea what home really means these days. Just a cushioned space of a black hole to press my pause button, until work shackles you till you can exhale again on weekends. On and on, it seems. The wine really did it's trick, and heard you say my name by the third bottle. Silly shit, it seems. Like all silly things thrown to the landfill, until it ceases to be a thing.


Oh, how lovely to float in such a sad yet euphoric haze. I'd probably wake up regretting that I wrote this.






#YearEndEchoes