I just saw the ball drop—
—a static rebroadcast, but
my mind is so fucked
right now, I imagined
an atomic bomb sliding
down that silver pole.
Chaos, casualties, mass
human kryptonite. Maybe
it would sparkle like Times
Square on January 1st. New
Yorkers screaming. Are you
from New York? I forget.
Sorry, if you are. I hope
you aren’t one of the dead.
That’s why I’m calling. I
miss you, I guess. Stupid,
but genocide will do that
to a person. And I realized
your voice is gone. Like—
vanished. The you in my head
just stares, silent, and I hate it.
So no pressure, but if you want,
give me a call, I’d love that.