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.