the Happy New Year rotted in her mouth that night,
a sordid rinse and repeat of yesterday.
she searched for resolutions, but she resigned in the morning
and continued alone,
lint and Stockholm syndrome in her pockets.
because her captor always came back, and
she was never quite sure if she wanted him to.
counting the broken promises, forgotten resolutions
she smiles a symphony of someday,
postcards mapping the years she could say I love you
and mean it.
with ghosts in her champagne.