Melancholy is an indulgence
as sweet as it is bitter;
a rotting fruit savoring the memory of its ripeness.
The snapshot severs its subject from their laughter;
a mute mockery of motion and breath.
But my heart, it is fondest of light,
and wont to cast its warmth
upon pale and faded places.
These echoes, whose silence distends
in the quietude of deepest night,
have traveled so far
as to forget the shape of the smiles which birthed them.
Here, loitering among inchoate ghosts,
I begrudge my blessings
and envy the dead their moldering bones.
by S. T. Hawks