the year that kills me

sometimes in the winter,
i get high
and walk around outside
in the middle of the night.
and listen to the same mountain goats song
on repeat.

i actually look at the city that i live in,
typically dismissed victorian homes lining neil.
porch lights shine on me
like a distant, pale moon.
passing old churches that
once had flea markets in the basement,
and dogs barking through a hole in the fence.
all while my roommates sit at home
and socialize.
and i cry.