Sadness is a strange drug
intoxicating as any pill,
prescription,
poison.

Sadness is a bed
into which you can sink and sink,
drown so deliciously
in softness
and melancholy
and sad, slow guitar chords
strummed with bloody fingertips.

Sadness is feathers
with cinderblock stems,
the exquisite beauty of moonlight
reigning in the wild sea.
Sadness is the song that makes you cry
and the lyrics which make you ache
yet you play it over and over
for the strange beauty
in the elegant shudder
of your sobs.
It’s why we find lovely
in the heartbroken folk songs.
It’s why I find gorgeous
in trampled flowers
and crippled butterflies,
thin streams of blood
and weather-beaten book covers;
yet what were they to me
before they were broken?
Sadness is falling asleep in the snow;
it is always dusk,
it is the end of electricity,
it is unused tires
and objects drifting in outer space.
It is floating
and it is sinking
in one fluid motion;
far be it from me to divine the difference.

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