A distant sun
Clean from a warm shower,
slipping into fresh pyjamas and linen,
relaxed by the scent of pillow lavender.
A perfect way to end each year.
A good night’s sleep
wrapped cocoon tight in a cotton shroud.
The prospect of waking up
in a whole new year
fresh with possibility.
Dreamscape glimmers
of New Year’s celebrations past
strewn behind a Doppler-wave
of connectionless history.
House parties hosted by vibrant folk
lasting for days.
A myriad of party events filled with
a sea of colorful frocks,
exposed-flesh random hook-ups,
copious amounts of booze
and queues to the bathrooms
that seemed to stretch for miles.
B&B places or campsites
and a smaller crowd,
appreciating remote locations,
where horror stories were shared
over a game of Scrabble
or a beachside fire circle.
They all had something to offer
as flashes of life and intimacy.
Intermingled with
steel heavy remoteness
that could not be shaken.
Surrounded by people,
yet alone or lonely.
Perhaps we’ve all felt that
at some time in our lives.
Not transient.
More a permanent state.
As if the mind resides
on a distant sun
in another universe
but the body is here.
Waiting for the light and warmth
that should belong to it
traverse a chasm of space and time
to reach this hollow shell.
Hoping some heat
will make it grow whole one day.
Wondering if it might be a black-hole dead star
and no wave will ever escape.
And, in the meantime,
fated to shake half-frozen
from the icy coldness
that stems from its core.
What brings me satisfaction?
What makes me content?
What stops me from checking
the expiration date
on my stockpile of sleeping pills?
Break the glass
in case of an emergency.
Do not use the shards to color
the warm bath water red.
Am I a ghost — already dead?
Half expect to float away,
a dispersing fog forgotten.
There is not a soul to share with.
Not a soul to laugh with.
In between the ebb and flow
of an occasional snapshot
moment of closeness
broken by many more
quiet silences.
Sleeping into another new year
in a crisp clean bed
that is not a coffin.
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