the sadness

The sadness you give me rests

as a moustache on my mouth, curling up at the sides.

It looks comfortable there, makes my mouth look lived-in,

rustic, even. Some of my friends tell me it doesn't become me.

I agree with them during most mornings

but at random hours, I find myself combing lints of happiness

out of it, stretching it as far as it

would go. Yesterday, I said

this aloud: This is the only true

thing about me. My dinner

companion left me abruptly, tied an

old chair to the door, which

meant that he might not come back. It's

been five years and

I've stopped hiding it, even from strangers.

They come to me,

asking me to hold their grocery bags

for them and do not return. They assume this sadness

is my real mother, one that ties me to the

oceans I can never cross. When I watch you

sleeping, I wonder

if it would look better as a necklace around your neck. One day,

I might just reach out and

place it over your head, see if you'd think it heavy.

if it was worth everything.