to me, winter is cinnamon.
dotted ceilings make me itch.
5pm tells me "sleep" -- then
yellow fills me with "home".


there is something about you
that smells a lot like January.
a lot like blinking and train tickets.
sometimes i look at you and think
about the lazy curls of y's and g's
after they've been sleeping so long on
December's hardwood floors.  


and i don't know how else to say it.
is there a word for "waking up
with bruises by a lover
who was never
there"?


what about that kaleidoscope feeling?
how you unfold all over the place
when i turn inward.
at times nonsense.
at times ugly.


a lot like sea salt on dry land,
and fireworks that bloom
in the middle of the day.