Outside my window
the charcoal sky stretches over a world
pulsing with celebration
and saccharine nostalgia
I sit on the edge of my bed
and listen as the hands
of the clock
tick down to midnight
thinking of all the bright and
bitter moments of the
past twelve months,
exhaling a symphony of
carbon dioxide
and melancholy
as the last minutes of the year
bleed into history
I have never liked endings
there is something about
them that makes me feel
hollow and old,
but this doesn’t seem to be
the case for the roiling blur
of people in the streets
They are a kaleidoscopic blaze
of color
and my skull buzzes and burns
with vertigo as I watch
Across the city
the first resonant toll of a clock
splits the air
and the distant swell of human noise
comes rushing over me like a
churning tide:
a joyful acknowledgment of
both the past
and the future
The clock on my wall
strikes midnight—only a few
seconds late—as
fireworks rocket upward
to burst among the stars
and I tip my head to admire
their arc