melancholia,
the slightest music of an evaporating fountain
a lack of reflection in the universe
making love to your death...

what is it about dreary days that remind us
to tuck our hands deep in our pockets
and stare through the earth
or stare through the sky?

and though the sun might be shining on us
or on the clouds overhead,
we are nestled among the ceaseless divisions
in a small nook between
entertaining hapless musics
a pause between strikes
the place where we can
or cannot
cry

when plans come together in a cadence scattered
when resolution insults its own definition
we give our hearts to sadness

i think because
there is too much space
in the universe
to fill