My sadness clings to me in the way that the smell of smoke clings to clothes.
It seeps into my pores and lingers on my hair.
It made its way into my carpet, into my home.
My depression stays longer than most.
Latching onto me,
It's my only companion,
But it's a ghost.
Comes and goes as he pleases,
And I'm the carpet at the doorway.
Walks on me like it's his purpose.
Hugs me when I declare I'm lonely.
Says he's the only person made for me.
"We fit perfectly."
He states it like I already don't know.
We don't fit at all.
I feel like I'm trying on a toddler's clothes.
Like my skin is so dry, it just cracks, now.
Like my tongue is too big for my mouth.
I can't speak.
I don't talk to him, but he talks to me.
"You remind me of my father." I say.
"I know."
YOU ARE READING
The Swallows and the Sunsets
PoetryI tend to find meanings in things not intended to have one.
