There is a kind of sadness
that spreads on my cheekbones,
that makes my lips stay still
and my eyebrows rise.
River turned pond.

There is a kind of sadness
that freezes grins
and makes my pace slow
and heavy.
Spring turned winter.

There is a kind of sadness that
makes me sit still and stare
at a world no longer mine.
Star turned vacuum.

They call it melancholy.
I wonder why.