January Was an Office
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If you wake in a world almost your own, you've arrived in the spaces which exist parallel to it. The months are not markers of time, but alive and watching. Each has its own rules, its principles, its hungers. Your memories are a currency here. Obey what you cannot understand, and you may endure. Falter, and the months will write your ending for you . . .
January watches, silent and wide
February hums, close behind
March stretches its fingers into unseen corners
April folds itself around the edges of thought
May shivers, bright and fleeting
June leans, heavy with heat
July burns and blinks, restless
August sighs, carrying whispers of what was lost
September twists, half-hidden in shadow
October tilts, unsure
November hums with quiet storms
December waits for you . . .
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