Emily’s seasonal depression
made its yearly call come
this time in November.
We sat at the kitchen table
over shouts mixed with tears,
explaining the reasons she
counts sheep to sleep because
she can’t get over me.
I’m a shadow of the person
I used to be.
Emily has confused me
with someone worth
a goddamn.
I’m just a whisper in the whip
of a thunderous wind.
She thrashed her arms;
hitting the table;
holding her face in her hands;
crying over spilled milk.
The glass shards
drew blood skin deep,
pooling her palms.
An hour fought for the next minute
of cheapshots until the sun crawled
out of the deep well,
scattering shadows,
to retake its position
above the day’s forecasted snowfall.
A mosaic collage of memories
came forever calling to an altar.
(© 2022 AC)
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