There is a part of me that can gravitate toward the melancholy

Soaking into sadness like landing in a feather bed

candlelight intoxicates

Allows me to lament,

and

I can lament, for I have lost

my sister, my father, my mother

Those I have loved and cannot hold.

Where would they be in this state with me

Lighting a candle as well?

Listening to Leonard Cohen

“And I’ll bury my soul in a scrapbook,
with the photographs there and the moss.”

There is no shortage of photographs

memories to sink into

I run my fingers over them and cannot believe

they are all I have.