We can no longer create each other
in the likeness of ourselves. But
we still can love who we’ve dreamed
warm under covers,
in the slow melancholia of twilight.
Though separate, still a part
painting one another’s shadow —
an impression all our own.
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The Futile Attempt to Explain a Temporary State of Being.
Somewhere between
breathing in and breathing out
comes this wave
of melancholy,
like salt to a snail
the only defense
is to crumple
back into a shell,
drained is all sense
is all sympathy
buried beneath
the weight,
sinking
deeper, deeper
into
this chair,
like a prisoner
wrongfully accused
without the funds
to buy a voice,
but time
is a cruel saint
without regard
for its hands,
that never miss a beat
or waver indefinitely
like this melancholia
that rests a while,
waiting for
another breath
to break up
the sea again.
Words Of An Average White Male 