There’s a sick
part of you
that looks
forward to it
every season,
these weeks
of rain, their
long romance,
their sodden
caress, as if
you were a sad
character
in an existential
film, moving
through the
vapors of a gray city
in your fedora,
contemplating
some unrequited
love, some
quiet angst. You smoke,
haunt cafés, a
Billie Holiday
soundtrack in
your head,
and you sink in
deeper
by the day, as it
never stops.
It’s the danger
of succumbing
that attracts
you, of approaching
the edge and
peering into that hole
you fought so
hard to escape.
You watch it
filling further
with each storm,
a lovely bath
of depression,
and you’re so tired,
wet, beaten; so
susceptible. But
that’s too easy,
and you’re still,
after all, a
fighter: You clutch
at colors,
waiting for the water
to end, for a
return of sunrises.
