I hate the New Year

I hate the New Year, 
I hate this celebration, 
when you left me, 
took the warmth with you, 
snatched away my beloved children, 
as if they were whispers in the wind, 
drifting out of reach, 
abandoned me in my darkest hour. 

The nights stretch long, 
decorated with memories, 
glittering like false promises, 
while laughter echoes, 
from homes that feel complete, 
but I am here— 
nestled in shadows, 
wrapped in the chill of absence, 
standing in the ruins of what was once ours. 

Fireworks burst, 
a cacophony of joy overhead, 
but within me, silence reigns, 
a hollow space where love used to thrive, 
the clinking glasses, 
the cheers, 
a bitter symphony of joy that doesn’t belong to me. 

The clock strikes midnight, 
and wishes float in the air, 
but all I wish for 
is to turn back the hands, 
to hold you close, 
to gather our children, 
and drown in our laughter once more, 
but it is only me now, 
and the residue of dreams, 
as the New Year arrives, 
unrelenting, unknowingly cruel