Melancholy

Melancholy -
She cuts through me.
Often.
Slowly and gently.

Like a warm knife
sliding through soft butter;
like a bookmark
slipped through
the leaves of a book;
she arrives, and she stays.

She is the butterfly
lying still and listless
on a cold stone floor,
her wings fluttering
with tiffany ease
in the gentle breeze.

She is the tart lozenge
to be sucked on slowly,
soothing and feeding
the pain of being human,
that wants to be held
and loved for what it is.

She is the note
touched by the 
bow of a violin,
stirring a lonesome heart
into a swell,
that rises and falls
to the same place,
again, and yet again.

She is the heavy blanket
of a silver-grey sky,
wrapping me in a warmth
that comes from a knowing
that shafts of sunlight
will streak through, after the storm.

She is a ribbon of stardust
tied around
a fleeting moment,
holding intangible joy
in the nebulous, forgotten haloes
of stark street lamps at night,
that inhabit the fringes
of a path not taken.

She is the frail green tendril
that curls herself
around a tall, warm tree,
giving and receiving strength,
growing together in love,
as we look fearlessly into the sun.

She is the dark lake
of a life I did not choose,
but I watch her ripples
nibble at speckles of moonlight,
occluded by her sweet sadness
that chokes my parched throat.

She is the poignant fullness
of a billowing raincloud
who has lost her way
in the infinite emptiness
of a surreal sky
that's waiting to break open.

Melancholy -
she sits with me,
a silent lover at sunset,
holding hands
and looking into
that elusive sunrise.

Melancholy.
I remember
her heady fragrance,
as she embraces me.
For she is me.