The night is cold. November tends to be.
I tend to burn out quick.
Those talks all sound the same to me.
They tend to make me sick.
So I spit up a few fake goodbyes
and glide through doorways, out of sight
               to find
I've got a bag to grip again.

These sips don't go down easily,
like back when we were kids
spending neon nights together
and pretending to shed skins.
               No,
they hit like bitter fists now;
no new memories, just bruised skin.
          Once again--

   it aches after they leave.

And all the ways they always find
to always leave you far behind
will never fade from memory
no matter how far your way winds.
The faces change, but not the times.
               They've gone.

          Again, you circle back.

The walk home's cold like two-thousand-and-twelve,
when I fled from myself--
from ghost of future Christmas me,
past "CLOSED" signs, beneath bells
in the churchyard. Wanna ring my neck?
'Cuz--cuss me, Father--I am wrecked.
               And I
can feel them sneer on the way out.

These sips won't stay down easily,
like when you were a kid.
Tonight, they tasted bitter.
Bitter wind chews wrinkling skin.
                 With
the feeling rising fast now
through your guts: they're not your friends.
               Once again,

      it burns when you exhale.

And all the ways the always found--
deflate, un-name you, pitch you out--
will always chase you doggedly,
however deep you dig you down
into the ******* frozen ground.
               You know...

   And they know that you do.