11:07 pm on a 20° Fahrenheit Night

I. 
I haphazardly roam this “wonderland” of sorts,
yet there is nothing magical about these bleak 
expansive hills that submerse my every 
racing thought- releasing the whisper of memories
that are better left buried in the snow that haunts me.

II.
I wish I knew which number my mailbox was before the 
frost decided to cling to it like how I cling to the delusion
of stationary moods. I am clouded with splitting
nails and cracked hands, my knees reap the effects of 
the cold like the frostbit pipes in my house which isn’t home.

III.
I lay in a room that resembles my own, however, I could not say
if it is- I cannot begin to recognize the faint freckles on my hands 
or the baggy clothes I wear in an attempt to ground myself.
This deja vu I experience with the window is no longer comforting;
the view is merely a portrait of a past life flashing between blinks. 

IV. 
I stare at the ceiling in hopes the speckles I notice are 
truthfully stars that will guide me on the path to home- 
wherever it may be and not another hallucination. 
I am tired of being a nomad in these familiar places.