Out of time.

Out of habit.
Out of time and mind, I wander
Loose and bright stars
Like bullet holes
Like shining arrow-marks, they drip
Their hot silver on my eyelids.
I carry my baggage forth,
Onion paper peeling down my sides
Peer again, unbelieving through the bottom of another glass-
The answers still aren't there.
But the whispers are.
Some cold metal taps a quiet heartbeat on the door.
I scoop an errant constellation of dimes from the bottom of my purse and curse them right back.
Fuck you, winter.
Not this time.