one more year

I always think of you around the new year. It seems like just yesterday that we were toasting in the new year with celebration and champagne, but it's been years since that happened. Back then it was all laughter and kisses at midnight, dressing up nice and braving the cold to watch the fireworks outside. You used to love the fireworks.

I guess maybe you still do, but there are no more fireworks. Not here, anyway, and probably not where you are, either. Things are going wrong everywhere, and there's no celebrations left, not really. Here, we stayed up until midnight anyway in a quiet basement somewhere, and allowed ourselves grim smiles and nervous laughter as we pretended this wouldn't be the last time. After all, said a man next to me, it was supposed to be the last time last year, and the year before that.

That's the thing about humans. We know how to drag things out to the bitter end. It's not pretty, but we can do it.

This year I hope you're happy. I hope you're safe somewhere, that you're not just adrift like I am, that you're not just looking for one more place to rest a while before the end finally comes. Because it will, and one day there won't be one more place.

I guess it's easy to say none of that really matters now. I don't think I can agree with that. Not when it's the new year, and every sip of bathtub gin makes me think of you. I keep trying to write things like "one day you'll have to tell me how you've been," but there won't be a one day, will there?

Happy new year. I hope you're well.