And on This Monday..

The room is cold, and full of light. Sitting on a quilt, not made of flowers, but made of flowers. And all things good are coming. Not only coming, they're here. I am here. I am in the cold room, with the open curtain window, staring at the light patches across the street from the neighbor, unknown. But, despite all this, melancholy is somehow a visitor in this bright space.

I wouldn't title it a true sadness, no, not the heart breaking type, or the weeping kind, oh no, but the loss of familiarity. Good thing it is nothing new. The familiarity of touch, of voice, of knowing...

yes. Perhaps, as they say, in post cards and movies, it's all for the best. You can't hug a dead thing. Or serve two masters. As the cliches say. Magnets, tote bags, they all say it loud, say it proud. But yet.. I miss the knowing. Miss the needing. Miss the unmentionable moments of action words that end in 'ing'. Perhaps it's the missing alone that is where the melancholy is born.

Without detail, without touching, kissing, licking, fondly recalling, tracing, all of everything...

I miss.

Something profound. And I try happiness on. Like a designer garment, top of the line, look how sharp and how people stare. But if they sought to find the label, it's a counterfeit. My joy, this smile, the happy, raggedy andy patched up. A knock off. But, oh, do I not look smashing?

In the quiet, in the cold room..

I miss you.