Trading Fireworks for Thunder.

A toast and a kiss 
on my mother’s cheek

A string of my disappointing new years 
wound on the finger of a laughing fate

But before I burn the calendar
to make room for a new one
I stop.

Because what are words like “start” and “new” to our hearts demanding to be heard and healed on their own “time?”
What are another 365 days to the problems lingering behind our half-awake/ half-fevered dreams?
And how can something that’s done nothing more than promise to help keep track of the time really ever disappoint you?

So I will not just, “see what 2018 brings!” 
I will bring thunder.

And I will not just dive in. 
I will leave wakes.

Not “this new year” — right now.

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