an hour from the end of 2018, i tell my friend G and my ex W that 2019 is right here

& they don’t know / what i mean. we’re sitting

on G’s couch watching / just go with it, the same

movie i swear i saw / on new year’s eve when i was

nine & my family flew / down to florida so my parents

could pretend our falling / asleep alone at eleven

was a choice & not a chasm / deep with our loneliness.

this december i wanted / to drive into ontario, where G

& i could drink / legally & i could kiss W at the ball drop

in a bar we’ll never see / or step inside again, which

basically doesn’t count, but everything / is too expensive.

instead of a hotel or hostel we compromise / & G hosts,

lining filled liquor bottles / on her counter that her parents

give us & i down so many / screwdrivers i think W’s name

is G & G’s name is vodka. / i already know 2019 won’t be

the year i get sober. i like spinning / too much to stop, shining

like the promise of the times / square ball & somehow believing

i won’t fall, not this time. this is what i mean / when i tell W

i still love him, then say, i wish / i still loved you. the same aches

still exist & i keep bringing / my body through the loops it already

lived, making it relearn & re-envelop / itself in every new place.

i think this is aging. i saw a tweet / that said our city has the second-

biggest ball drop on the east coast, & i don’t know / why we never

considered watching. i do know / none of us will ever wander

into a crowd so large it could consume / us, & that chasm is how

i imagine downtown dancing / tonight. in florida, my father bought

a self-help book & kept asking where / we were. right here. right

now. i think i should stop calling / myself a burgeoning alcoholic

& admit it’s already inside me. i saw / a tweet where san francisco’s

youth poet laureate says it’s 2019 meaning / i am officially a virgin

again & i wish it worked like that, but i still keep / the same rust-bent

screwdrivers in my car that my ex gave / me for safety, or repair, or

something i’ve lost / the name for. i still fall asleep on the bathroom

floor & G chooses to leave / me because finally i’m not spinning

or screaming or leaning / against her. i think this is aging. i know

we’re never anywhere / but right here.

Courtney Felle (she/her) is a sophomore at Kenyon College. More of her writing can be found or is forthcoming in Half Mystic Press, L'Éphémère Review, and Honey & Lime, among other publications. She edits Body Without Organs Literary Journal and loves breakfast food at all hours. Find her on Twitter @courtneyfalling.