To Me You Are Depression
©Rachel C
I could curl up in your arms, fold my body to the contours of yours, rest my head against your shoulder-to-cry-on. I could link my fingers within yours, elegant and slender, like the piano player’s, but you do not serenade me. I could linger my mouth just-so slightly near yours, and let you taste my lust before my lips, my necessity before my want. But I do not, though in my mind I can feel your warm hands rest along my waist; and the gentle way you kiss my earlobe. I can feel your heavy weight upon my delight, pressing my objection into submission. And though I lie alone, distressed and undressed along the sheets stained with memories of my slumber, I do feel melancholy fingers linger at my neck; I do feel misery lips press into my own.
I could curl up in your arms, fold my body to the contours of yours, rest my head against your shoulder-to-cry-on. I could link my fingers within yours, elegant and slender, like the piano player’s, but you do not serenade me. I could linger my mouth just-so slightly near yours, and let you taste my lust before my lips, my necessity before my want. But I do not, though in my mind I can feel your warm hands rest along my waist; and the gentle way you kiss my earlobe. I can feel your heavy weight upon my delight, pressing my objection into submission. And though I lie alone, distressed and undressed along the sheets stained with memories of my slumber, I do feel melancholy fingers linger at my neck; I do feel misery lips press into my own.
Depression expresses its slightest intimacies with me, making love to my vulnerable body and devastating me in despair.
February 20, 2005
February 20, 2005
No comments:
Post a Comment