When I wake

Oh.

It’s the new year.

Those words, I was so desperate to hear.

But now I lay onyx like a mountain – staring at the ceiling,

Recalling this unwanted, regretful feeling

Like open cabinets dispensing waves of paper.

Of thoughts.

Like a second nature, I tear at these papers

Not wanting,

Not needing such fears.

Despite, apprehension grips me like a firm handshake – a greeting.

So I greet it back.

This time I say the words I want to hear.

“It’s the new year.”