Melancholia, Not Humor

subsumption by my own melancholia is

no cause for alarm, any reminder

of sway still falls under

the assumption of contention,

bar malodorous function.

misery verses all, versus love and

an errant reminder of the way i wear

my hair to sleep, in a braid or pulled back except

for when we deign to grace each other

side by side, worried

about the brush of a palm.

your hair like my hair like

the warm/cold pallor of our skin in the dark as the sun rises.

i think of breathless nights

wishing i could curve

my limbs around you.

a little help/less

a little stuck.