the sun and I went down
for the last time this year.
at midnight, toasting
the tired orbit of time
swearing on dry-January
confetti fall in my champagne;
mini meteors. all round me,
the boys are kissing
the year farewell, but I
cursed to circle alone.
how heavy we are,
the poet and I,
carrying ourselves, endlessly
dizzy, and like the earth
yearning for friction,
for another body to inch close,
to rub against,
to grab and grind to a stop,
to spark, to combust,
and go dim just as quick.