I’ll fold up the year like a piece of paper
and all the words written in them will fall out at the sides
and I’d have to pick them up one by one
and put them on something blank in a different order
because there’s no point, really, in writing those words
all over again when the year turns.
Some phrases I won’t be needing anymore
and some I’ll be using again and again
and maybe it would be directed to someone else
or, knowing me, it would be aimed at the very same person
with the hopes that it would lead to different results.
All those words from this year
are the very same words I’ll be using next year
because the language stays the same
it’s the heart that forces out the syllables
that transforms and is reborn.
All the fireworks in the sky
and all the dancing and the loud music
and the wine and other spirits that flow
in and out of each of us
stains these papers with the words
that never change but will be used again.
That’s all we do to get older, really,
folding pieces of paper filled with words
and we let the words fall out
because we need them to — we need them handy —
and in some box somewhere are these blank pieces of paper
that changes as our minds and hearts change over time
and it is the memory that determines in what order
the words will appear in the leaves, in the sheets,
of folded paper, creased with the force of an ending.
I know of endings.
It’s never as binding
because we don’t know how to burn
and our hearts change
but the words always stay the same.