The Ballad of Melancholia

Wistful, you called me: half in jest,
As though I floated just beyond.
But I was clearest when distressed,
Most real beneath your shrinking bond.

I wore your doubts like borrowed thread,
Too loose to warm, too tight to move.
I hushed my thoughts, bent back my head,
And called it grace, and called it love.

I knew the lie, and drank it deep,
Let hunger make the silence sweet.
The wound, at least, was mine to keep,
A place where pain and meaning meet.

You never saw the things I knew,
The quiet work behind the tone.
But I still bled to be with you,
And named the sorrow, being known.

Drawer of Silence

I fold your photograph,
and hide it in the drawer.
The feelings inside might shatter,
what little peace I've built.

Between duty's gate,
and the meadow where you stood.
I remain frozen.

Summer evening holds its breath,
waiting for my choice.

The choice I made echoes,
through empty rooms at twilight.

Honour has a price:
This hollow ache that follows,
every righteous step.