Ocean, Year.

I.

It’s the end of “The New Year”
All affairs going forward will only be regarded as “The Year”


II.

Everything is about to be incoherent
This is not a threat, this is a platitude from a fortune teller
This is what happens when you break the hands off

Truth in a singular position, truth as subject, truth with shadows at the correct angle
Truth as clear as daybreak on a horizon, as a handgun on a table
As another derivative string of words painting the lack of uncertainty

“Ocean, Year”
You know exactly what I am talking about


III.

I am hastily renovating my body, drywall dust and blue tape
Someday someone else will be the only one who truly understands
What I look like when I am putting all of my clothes back on
Where things fall when I’m combing the frustration out of my hair
The last melodic wave escaping my throat

Still
I am reliving your cool blue coast slamming shut
The back of my head is both the breaker and the granular shore
I am precisely where you left me, the line where the ocean fails at swallowing the Earth
	
You, who refused to know, have rendered me completely unknowable
Am I the man or the gun? The air or the water? The room or the absence inside of it?

I beg the reflection and it comes back silent


IV.

This part is simple, factual, and colorless
I am being possessed by strings making sense of theory
Hear me out as I abandon my own house of cards
Impersonating knowledge of self
Laughing alone in the uncelebrated hours

Every man I have ever loved has only loved me at the darkest gulch of their underwater valley
As close to the molten core that an addict can get
I would like to believe that it is because there is a swaying light radiating out of my bony frame making promises of a blue heaven
Except I know it is because I am sunken too
It is only possible to love me down here in the deep sea trench
I am the final reminder to swim


V.

My favorite part is how it is never over
I am finding the discarded parts of myself here in this gridlock vacancy

I can be the gun and I can be the room
I can be the gun alone in the room
I can be the empty room, the empty sky, the empty swell
Or the table underneath
The window caught in the salty mist
The walls, the ceiling, the floor, the whole structure, or the small private cracks and chasms
I can even be the watch on his wrist, trapping him here in this half a century standstill
Staring out at the ultramarine of it all

But I could never be the man, because the man can leave, he can put his shirt back on and go

As if he isn’t leaving anything behind

The difference is when I blink my eyes, I lose lifetimes

Yes, this is the truth, in its singular position, I am fully clothed, you have been gone since last year, it’s always like this forever