September the Twenty-Fifth, Twenty-Sixteen

You're drowned in a flood tide of depression
that flows and flows and flows and does not ebb,
lying in empty heaviness, in wakeful concussion,
the office's floor being a giant spider web.

You jaywalked a thousand times, maybe a million,
fantasizing the kiss of a car, a bus, a train, a chariot,
but you'd promised to take her to the fairy pavilion,
so everytime you'd murder the infidel self and bury it.

Seeded is the longing for a cuddling session, a snuggler,
upon whose knees you rest your head, your eyelids droopier,
a tranquil ocean, its gentle waves of quiet murmur.