You have a hand to hold, and I have a kitchen sink.
You have someone to speak with, and I have somewhere to think.
When the subtle darkness throttles in threat at the back of my throat...
To come up, cry out, and stir in the air, as it's done many times before:
I perch my palms on the kitchen sink, head bowed with a steady breath.
Steady or shaky, I never could tell the difference in the depths.
When that gnawing hunger of want haunts your darkened shadowed halls,
And you're either eating too much, or just not eating at all.
Too numb to feel the pain, too in pain to even care.
About you or me and all of these unclimbable stairs.
The basin collecting the tears of grief, of sadness, of fear, of stress.
They all wash away in the steel of silvery gray, but that must be life, I guess.
To mourn and move on, to have did and be done, to be here and then go.
Appear in the past if someone were to ask, but no one needs to know.
Under the table, up in the clouds, and it's now a quarter past three.
That's three in the morning, in the mourning, as I notice that no one says goodnight to me.
And you have someone who loves you, but I have the kitchen sink.
Awashed in thoughts that I forgot before you all could blink.