I always thought the word melancholy sounded beautiful,
somnolent sadness draped upon vulnerable shoulders,
a heavy fur coat fretfully worn, admired.
Even when it became real, formed sad arms and sad legs,
dripped like sour honey onto the kitchen floor,
the cadence of hermetic suffering, reluctant bravery.
The weekend we retreated to the beach,
I did not love you yet, a gentle yearning rain
kept us inside, the grey slip of sea
helplessly stirring up loose, flimsy waves.
Under languid bedsheets, after the sighing,
you caressed the wistful flesh of my hip,
Wine and word left a sweet taste on my lips.