December 31st. My Eighteenth Birthday. The Challenger. Summer Vacation. Doomsday. 

Commonality connects contrast but contrast only incites confusion. I

Don’t like being confused. And—for that matter—

I don’t like contrast. But commonality covers 

Contrast between these words. Isn’t it

clear?  Each event 

Involves a

Countdown.

But,

A countdown

Can oscillate between

Emergence and absence. Or 

Genesis and apocalypse. My Eighteenth

Birthday and Summer Vacation are riddled 

With beginning. The Challenger and Doomsday are 

swallowed by termination. Yet, December 31st is both 

And neither which incites confusion. I don’t like being 

confused. And—for that matter—I don’t like December 31st.

Oh, December 31st. I apologize. Please don’t take it personally

When I remark that I possess no fondness for

Your final hours—hours of oxygen wasted by

Ignorant impatience and arrogant anticipation for the 

year that will be the Year 

But won’t be The Year. 

A day meant

To quantify

Temporality.

Oh,

December 31st. 

Your aroused by

My epilogue before reading

My story. Mortality scares me

Less than you because She resides 

in the rear. You? The forefront. But 

Commonality covers contrast between you and Her. Isn’t 

It clear? You are a countdown to anatomical demise.