Giving up in their frail attempts at not letting the premature light in, my eyes opened again far too early,
and the grey brightness seeped in easier than oil.
I momentarily allowed my thoughts to steal back to the dark crevices I thought I had sufficiently locked away, and considered, once again, the maddening sequence of events that have unashamedly marched militantly into my life to form this year.
I suppose I should know by now that it is always the most uncomfortable memories that are the most frequently and thoroughly revised.
But sometimes as a last attempt at beautifully naive optimism; I effectuate my own secret rituals- taking tiny, hesitant steps, slow as the first tentative sips of illicit vodka, I go back to all the places, I listen to all the songs, I click upon click upon click until I've perused every single photograph of you or me with our tell-tale serene smiles- until I have nothing left to do but write it all down; a list undisclosed to anyone else that tells me nothing other than the plaintive and simple fact that, with all the rituals and art and poems in the world