2020 nears end, still grasping a warmth that does not belong to her. i feel alive with her reluctance to let go. these hands have known no loosening, their pals hollowed from tirelessly gripping onto things as we do words. i don't even remember what are in these hands, i wonder if 2020 does either. we all, i suppose, are at fault here; helplessly bestowing too many promises of life and experience on her shoulders, ignorant to her plans of making a spectacle of us. do not mock me 2020, i walked into you as blind as i was bold. we are all so removed from the envy of earlier years — of age, of divinity, of promises, of all the smiles we knew were enough for the time being. now, there is nothing but the feeling of a wind biting against our cheeks and the bitter after taste of hope. what are our days, our years, our time, truly worth in the end?