One day in, the year has settled beneath my fingertips. My voice still edges past yesterday’s pulse, through air that tastes like last yesterday’s air, across the same distance. You are exactly as close, or as far, as you were when the year turned. A new page does not bring change.
You and I do not move to the world’s turning. We stick or stumble with words, spoken or silent. Hand and throat, these are the tools that shape our lives. We have another year to make the same patterns,