January

Charged with a chilling energy,
He feels the cold race inside him,
As though it's being pumped from the heart.
January has got the best of him yet again,
For new and old reasons.
Reasons he wishes he could forget.
But that would make life too easy.
He wouldn't appreciate what he has
Without being fully aware of how delicate it is.
Nor could he.
He wouldn't be able to appreciate February
Without May, November, or now, January.
So the days pass by, one by one,
Until he is home.
A less permanent home, perhaps,
But a home nonetheless.
A home without a May, November, or January.
As the strings of time play their melody,
He wonders what will come.
If home is where the heart is,
Or if home is just a place to distract the heart.
But for now,
His heart is pumping out the chilling energy,
As he expects it to for a long time.

But am I really talking about him?