December Settling.

A circle of orange trees, the sound of tambourines shaking in steady rhythm, fingernails clicking on a steering wheel, tea kettles whistling into the early hours of the morning with nobody to pluck them from the flames.  What else reminds me of you?  Waking up to a cold December morning wrapped in a comforter two-sizes-too-large for one person, holes in the pinky finger of my cheap gloves, sideways glances and half-assed smirks, guitar riffs as I drift to sleep around 5am.  I can find you in everything, in anything.  The very last drag of a cigarette before I enter a building, the man in front of me waiting on the elevator, the full moon hiding behind high rises, folds in the pages of the same book I've been reading since summer.  I don't know what else to tell you, you're on my mind.  Finishing whatever's left in the bottom of this too-empty beer bottle, setting it down and wondering where I'll end up tonight, steadying myself against a brick wall and shaking my head to release the demons I've allowed to build up inside of me, knocking my fists lightly against the bathroom mirror so as not to wake the neighbors or break the glass.  Sometimes I just think we made a mistake, all of this distance was a mistake now, just like it was then.  Waking up to dusk, finding a new hole in my favorite sweater, picking at the fabric til it grows and opens up wider and wider, taking down the calendar, lighting it on fire, forgetting about the cup of coffee I made hours ago, crawling back into bed and wondering when this feeling will subside.  I just miss you over and over, it comes and it goes like waves.  Lately it's been a tsunami.