melancholia

It’s ridiculous how heavy the air gets. The wind
feels grey, the sky bleak and clouds crawling
and weighed down by the same chill that sinks,
the same chill that pulls the weight deep in my gut.

Time trudges slowly now. I used to long for the
stretched hours, but not when the feeling is fleeting,
as if the world spins madly on as you bury your feet
deeper in the snow, until frozen, still and unmoving.

I lay on the carpeted floor, exhales all fog, staring
at the cracks in the corner of this windowless room,
where the wall meets the ceiling, where the wall
touches the floor, where the wall sinks to the ground,

outstretched arms, the tips of my fingers cutting through
old, pale light; the small of my back impossibly stuck to
the polyester. There is no colour here. Grey, on the walls,
in the air, atop my toes, in my breath, mixed in the light.

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