The moon comes to me,
at once with melancholy.
Like old friends.

Suppose I am just blue.
pale, hardly replicable.
Neither black; nor white but
lacking saturation
nevertheless.

Please weave your
nerves along
My bones,
my marrow is
your supper.
Please wrap your
never ending
absoluteness around
My eternity,
my endlessness is
your reward.

It’s the kind of sadness where your rib cage
Contorts
And twists and
Snaps.

Depression doesn’t float through my veins
It crawls through my bones, with dagger hands
And winding movements.

I cannot breathe.

And yet there was nothing taken from me.

Kindness
was a house.

Knitted by
knowing you.

It was made
of sticky notes.

Encouragement
aching for actions.

Friendship
is the fuel.

Hearts only
in its windows.

Looks didn’t
really matter.

A firm foundation
invisible.

Gates of wisdom
walk to it.

Depression
laughed at it.

Gossip galloped
away from it.

The golden rule
knew better.

Stoic pines are uprooting,
Careless rage
of an indifferent wind.
And when the nerves are exposed
It dies in spent shudder, to our stupefied awe and vulnerable repose.

Rubble and dust
spinning in swirling disks
around the fire
until one place
of greater attraction
draws debris to itself
and coalesces into an incandescent planet.
Earth and sky begin
full of promise.