misconception

pulling legs cross eachother,
not smoothly mind you,
and hair tainted by heartache and neglect away from skin
that rejects softness,
with fingers that are chewed away with worry
felt in the almost ferocious fluttering of a diaphragm
like a voice that refuses silence
a constant static clouding reception.
dark grapes and glass put away now and
auld lang sine read and back on the shelf
dusty.
these tattered hands flip three hundred and sixty five eternities,
already weary,
already wondering,
why we greet the new year
happy.