Melancholy

Melancholy is sweeter on the roof, after midnight; the isolated hushed hours, when life is enveloped in a quiet brush of memories, breathing becomes lighthearted.

The wind speaks of names, I don't speak of anymore. Its silent as I hand a fleeing short attention, I pray; questioning: 'did I finally wish my past away?' 'listen' it starts again 'listen to the silence'

I've loved many peculiar things; my father's favorite watch that stopped telling time out of respect, the loneliness at fourteen that taught me how to forgive, the warm beaches of my childhood where I encountered life's early myths.

Now, the night-sky echoes with a howling hope, few things are hard to understand; absence is one of them, loss is a close other. 'breathe' the wind says 'breathe before its too late' the dim of a timid star, wondering: if this will ever be, good enough one day.