Is sadness destiny (or a destination)?

I always equated sadness to sound,
the sorrows of a songbird, the pain of a
half-hearted goodbye, everyday words
choking on themselves.

But sometimes, sadness is the lack
of anything.

I don’t hear the rush of the wind or
the pattering of rain or the sharp beeps
of traffic outside my bedroom window.

I can’t lean on memories of us talking.
Was that all a dream?
I can’t recreate your voice.

[Everything is muffled]

My mind, a clogged drain.

And soon, the silence increases,
loud in its arbitrary crescendo, in its
cruel intentions.

I imagine conversations spilling out
of my veins until I’m hollow.

You filled me with hope;
now there is no substance to draw from.

Sadness is the way I’m cocooned now
in bed, wrapped in a fleece blanket,
unable to stretch one leg out.

Sadness is having so many visions for
the day, but feeling like it’s all too heavy.

Once again, it takes me hours to get up.
And I think back on all the choices I could
have made to prevent it from getting this bad,

but would it have even mattered?

Would you not have eventually given up, too?

_______________________________

Written April 2, 2024