Monday, January 16, 2017


Melancholy is the sweet ache for lost love
dissolved in the memory of its suffering
Blood pulsing beneath
the surface of transparent skin. 
All it takes is a scratch for it to flow fresh. 

For we are fragile beings. 
Resilient, we can hang by a thread,
outlive our fears,
and make amazing  resurgences when pruned back. 
We’ve learned how to manipulate
our world to keep us safe. 
But a sudden twist of fate
can just as easily snuff out the light. 

Melancholy is living with the knowledge
of good and evil. 
Tasting the fruit,
juice dripping down my chin,
without shying away,
to know my own nakedness
but choose not to cover myself. 
Prefer to stand bare in the whip of wind. 
and attentive. 

Melancholy is to have found joy in pain
but also the twinge of agony on the far rim of bliss.
We hold the red hot embers that glow in the night
even when it burns the flesh. 
It shows in my eyes
that I’ve walked through fire
to stand exposed by your side. 
Heart pounding,
face tilted to the heavens,
hands falling open. 

Melancholy is to know there are no guarantees. 
We walk together only as long
as we continue to challenge each other,
a solemn promise to let go
rather than hang on or hold the other back. 
For life is too short and too precious
to drag around a bag of rocks,
even if they are beautiful. 

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