Melancholia enjoys company
She beckons me to leave
the comfort of happiness
to join her for tea
beneath the water oaks
that line the creek.
We sip tea and cry.
“I am perfectly not perfect
flawed, sometimes useless,
sometimes productive,
most times neither”, she weeps.
“Me too”, I reply, wiping
the snot from my nose with my shirt sleeve.
Back and forth she paces,
the hem of her silk gown
the color of gray
makes paths in the sand.
She laments about all of the
things that are wrong in life.
But after about an hour I am exhausted.
Her complaints are solidly etched in my head.
Knowing that she has succeeded,
in ruining what could have been
a perfect day, she smiles.
Behind the Red Door 