I just wish I knew how to determine where the end might be,
rather than a constant memory that emptiness, that woe is me.
I wonder sometimes about the truth of the human condition
a friend of mine who speaks of not having any depression.
I stood on a bridge when I was twenty three years old
without falling off as my roommate I had not even told.
She would have been terribly upset I said to myself,
I left a load of dishes dirty in a stainless steel sink.
I remember looking at the ice, determining open water
a snow had layered the city, a midnight feathered blanket.
Off the ground only on a rail, hands clinging a light post
no one walked by in the dead of a winter storm so soft
I wouldn’t let go – I’ve never been confident in the concept.
© Scott F Savage 2019