Every small explosion echoes within you,
like bass resonating in a small room;
the lights flash before your eyes,
vivid greens and reds and oranges.
Under the canopy of the sunless sky,
everyone looks up in wonder.
Coos in amazement, points with awe
like they’ve never seen the display before.
It’s a cold January night, and you wait,
watching for twenty and a half minutes,
waiting for a phonecall that never comes
since you pretend you just didn’t hear it ring.
Ridiculous enough, someone catches your eyes,
catches you staring and walks towayrds you,
asks if he knows you, you say no,
then you walk back; leaving him behind.
The new year’s all about a fresh start;
an empty slate; moving on.
But you’re stuck in the past, grappling
for things that are out of grasp. And
it’s difficult to pinpoint from the awed crowd
who’s going to help you there,
be that new variable to your faulty equation
and make you live again.
Because it’s the new year, things change.
The old trodden path to your cabin
is now cemented, made of imported bricks;
in the beginning was the last time you saw
your friends and it’s in the end for that to happen again.
They wonder where you’ve been; what happened,
why you’ve changed, and you told them
that “this happens every day, goodbye”.
But the fireworks display never change,
it’s the same pattern that you ignore;
it’s always going to be about the greens,
the blues and the reds, the same flowers
and dragons and colorful fountains.
When the display ends, still no call,
still no familiar voice and conversation.
See, the things that matter don’t change.
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