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.
Like a second nature, I tear at these papers
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.”