You and melancholia.

How will you understand?
Poetry, Prose or spoken words?
Or will you just watch her do her little drama and sit there inscrutable, leaving her with nothing but your stagnant body?
Will you let her stare at you forever, looking for an answer with a furrowed deliberation in an anticipation that, maybe, you might just read her intrigued eyes?
Is that how?
How will you understand?
Must she cry or must she laugh?
Do you want to see inside of her soul, tearing it apart, where rotten daffodils fill melancholy into her very being?
The anger in her, burning through the page, her heart’s bleeding so bad, she might die?
Is that how?
How will you understand?
Must she wait for you by the waters that have witnessed lovers holding hands and passion in all hues?
And wait for you forever?
By her choices? The solitary promenade, the seat next to yours, the heartbreaking option you left her with?
By the reason why she becomes like an attention deficient freak when you’re around?
Is that how?
But perhaps, you will not understand. Perhaps, you never felt the need to understand.

1 thought on “You and melancholia.”

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