de·​cem·​ber

I'm taking slow, heavy steps, and the concrete is cracking underneath me. My torso is 3-point turning through the halls while my legs walk straight ahead. I'm singeing my finger when I hold the lighter to the candlewick. I walk in a direction and bounce from it like a pinball in a meshed wire forcefield. I hung the lights up late, because I didn't want to live in a college dorm. I'm sad when I listen to music, because I don't like it in the same way I used to. It's a new kind of like - a concentric swirling around my cylindrical core. I can't find the plunging, lifting, glowing, charismatic, nostalgic glitter shower. Damn it. It's all so "I need six eggs" Phone calls and recaps and secrets and "yes!" What about my body? He looks like he's 18, and he wakes up to Bing and silence. Sweet Corona, bah bah bah.