enough with flippant poetry
just give me something heavy (yeah!)
you know as well as i do:
that's what depression's for!

(chorus?, then repeat)

i couldn't quite define
those pangs against
the colder white—
appropriately snow
in what felt like december

perhaps just waiting
to be hurt
at last, and under-
stand this pain

still here
these stars
what might they look like
in places where i used to be
old homes and destinations
i always needed to depart
their shimmer
is it that much brighter?
without enough of me
to recognize
myself at night
when i look at the clouds to find
that stars are callous
unconcerned
about me or the yous i lost
no future now worth speaking of
just little lamps
and bland emotions
the usual, you might say

if solitude were virtue
would this for once not make me
a somebody to reckon with

under dust; reclaiming
the leaves, with all their colors,
and deeper yet this certainty:
she still knows
how to smile

if you’re like me
you tend to see
the doors
that close
perpetually

the forest smell
is not
for clarity and focus
but dear to
you
and me (not many yet
the two
who count)

shared thoughts however murky
remain
when leaves have gone