The trouble with melancholy:
You see, at the core of it,
There was a deep love for emptiness (to begin with)
seeping, oozing into the void.
Because she is a crouching tiger
frozen silent in the hunt,
preying upon gullible moments
devouring artfully until nothing left.
Unrequited love for unfettered desolation
oozing from bone white teeth.
You see, the mirror lies
for it is indifferent to her ways of
frolicking on dainty clouds
raining on unsuspecting wayfarers.
Where is Dorian Gray when you need him?
And if you ever see her pensive near the ocean,
know that there is a weathered box (of blue light or receipts)
sinking fast, somewhere
nibbled on by unsuspecting barracudas.
And if you are the marooned man
I am writing to,
know that isolation is not bound to your
patch of land.