You Are My Sadness.

You are the sadness that I will never outrun.

Or outwalk.

Or outcrawl.

Or outlove.

You are the melancholy deep in my bones, multiplying in the marrow.

You are the weariness in my face.

You are the only daydream, I cannot erase.

Until we meet again, sweet sorrow.

–S.

You Call Anyway.

You sigh, and I am the reason.

How did our love not last more than a season?

I want to cry, but the dam of my pride holds my tears at bay.

You lie, and you are the reason.

But you say you want to stay.

‘We die,’ and part ways. But you call anyway.

–S.