Paper Skies Waiting For Ink [Wreath]
The old year is still half pinned to the fridge with crooked magnets and junk mail menus,
a limp soldier of coffee stains and crossed-out appointments hanging there like it forgot how to quit,
corners curled, boxes crowded with scribbles that look more like EKG lines than plans,
tiny autopsies of days that never quite went the way the pen promised they would.
On the table waits the new one, thick and smug in its plastic wrapper,
stack of untouched months like a tower of snow-white doors nobody has slammed yet,
each square a little blank face staring up in that impatient way paper haswhen it knows you are about to ruin it with your handwriting and your half-baked hope.
You slit the wrapper open with a butter knife that has seen more pizza boxes than butter,
slide the old year aside with as much ceremony as scraping crumbs into the trash,
and pull out January, fresh and crisp and pretending it does not smell like recycled lies.
The pages fan out like card tricks, twelve shuffles of maybe this timefanned across the table between the candle stubs and the abandoned Christmas cookiethat has fossilized into a sugar rock no one will admit they still want.
You flatten January with your palm, feel the cold press of it against the wood,
all those empty boxes waiting to be tattooed with dentist visits, rent due,
birthdays you hope you remember on the day and not in a panic two weeks later,
Release album scribbled in the margin with three underlines that already look tired,
tiny hearts drawn in the corners you will pretend you do not remember sketching,
like the calendar snuck into bed with your teenage self and stole old doodles off your notebooks.
The pen hovers over that first square and freezes,
caught between wanting to respect the clean sheetand wanting to dirty it on purpose just to break the spell,
because nothing feels heavier than an empty day that expects greatnessfrom a person who cannot even keep track of where they put their keys.
You start small.
Trash pickup.
Pay electric.
Call mom, maybe.
Write something you will hate by morning.
Suddenly the box looks less like a promise and more like a confession,
the way grown-up life always shrinks back down to errands and apologiesno matter how many rockets you light on New Year’s Eve.
February flips in behind like a shy kid in a group photo,
shorter, lined with pink hearts and tiny cartoon couples on the marginthat look suspiciously smug about not paying separate Wi-Fi bills.
You already know where the arguments will land,
which Fridays are perfect for starting a fight you do not have time to fix,
where you will circle a day and pretend Date nightcan fix four months of resentments you never quite named.
March arrives with a slap of green ink,
a promise of spring that will still feel like freezer burn for the first three weeks,
boxes ready for scribbling things like fix that damn cabinet,
call the doctor, drink less, drink more water, drink anything but your own excuses.
You imagine a tiny version of yourself living in each square,
waking up every morning, checking the cramped walls,
complaining about how the landlord never fixes the weather.
By the time you get to June, the calendar starts to fight back.
The paper smells faintly like sunscreen and disappointment,
beaches you might not reach, road trips that crumble into gas prices and overtime,
holidays circled in red that will arrive filled with relatives who drink too muchand ask why you are still chasing these music and words like they pay rent.
You scribble in a festival that may or may not happen,
add a question mark that leans like it needs a cigarette and a long talk.
July flops out like a sunburned gambler, full of fireworks and overtime shifts,
squares begging for lazy afternoons that will be traded for scrolling and cooling offin front of the cheapest fan you can find online at three in the morning.
You jot down a note in the corner release single,
then laugh at your own optimism and add keep breathing under itbecause bare minimum goals count too and anybody who disagreescan come over and handle your inbox for a week.
September is where the year usually starts to look like a crime scene,
ink heavy, crossings-out like barbed wire over promises that never showed up,
days double-booked with grief and groceries,
little arrows drawn from one box to another where you kicked the same task down the roadlike a rusted can you swear you will finally pick up when it hits October.
The new pages still shine though, unaware of the chaos on their cousins in the trash can,
ready to pretend they are different this time, the way every lover insiststhey are nothing like the one who left scorch marks on your last December.
You flip to the back and there is December again,
waiting with tiny snowflakes and cartoon stockings printed along the edgelike it was not just here twenty minutes ago, chewing on your last nerve.
Fresh December stares at ruined December with a smug little smile,
like a younger sibling who just watched their older brother wipe out on a bikeand still believes they can clear the same ramp without eating pavement.
You imagine the whole stack as a strange little town time built,
each square a cramped apartment where another version of you will livefor one short day, trying to get the dishes done and maybe say one honest thingbefore midnight evicts them into memory and drags the next tenant in by the collar.
It feels unfair and holy at the same time,
all these paper rooms waiting for your coffee rings and scribbled lyrics,
ready to forgive every crossed-out line as long as you keep writing.
The clock on the stove blinks a time you do not trust.
Outside, somewhere far beyond the kitchen window,
people are yelling numbers into the frozen air,
counting down to another lap around a sun that does not careif you managed to quit anything or finish something.
In here, you count boxes instead,
weeks stacked into months, months rolled into a yearthat might still end up mostly held together with tape and sarcasm.
You press the calendar against the fridge, pin January in place with a chipped magnet,
let the rest of the months hang free like a waterfall of future excuses and miracles.
On the very top margin of the whole thing, in the tiny space no one ever fills,
you write one crooked sentence, the only resolution that feels honest enough to keep
Do not disappear from your own schedule this time.
The ink bleeds just a little, soaking into the paper like it agreed.
The pages rustle when the heater kicks in,
whispering like a stack of soft-spoken conspirators who just signed upto hold you accountable in the smallest possible ways.
You turn off the kitchen light, let the new calendar glow faint in the spill from the hallway,
all those paper skies waiting for you to fly or stall or crash,
and for reasons that have nothing to do with champagneyou feel the quiet, stubborn twitch of a heart that is not finished yet.