8,765 hours later.

I remember last year.

We made lists.

Lists that people make on the first day of January,

to pour a little sugar in their problems.

Lists of lovers and potentials,

places to see and educations to gain,

and prayers.

Prayers to keep you from getting too lost.

I lost myself this year.

I lost myself to sweet eyes across the console,

loud music that wasn't my type,

food that wasn't my type,

people that weren't my type.

The clock grabbed me by the collar,

and pulled me in a back room to shake some confidence in my bones

until the tick-tocking started to hurt.

We poured songs down our spines

to keep our necks from breaking.

I rubbed dirt in my hair

and calloused my palms,

but poured solutions on my shoulders in the form of April boys and poetry.

There was blood loss

and love lost

and we didn't ask for this.

We didn't ask for totaled cars and creaking joints.

We didn't ask for broken noses on the way to school,

and broken hearts on the way out.

We didn't want tear streaks and stained clothes

and we didn't ask to wage war on each other.

But here we are.

After the bruises let up,

and the conversations cooled.

After losing ourselves

and shedding our skin,

sending our heartaches with it.

Here we are.

A handful of hellos,

a truckload of hours,

and six hundred goodbyes later.

Here we are.

All of us shaken by the clock on the wall,

listening to the ticks and the tocks,

because suddenly,

they seem to matter.