Writing on the inside cover
Of the novels she’d never enjoyed.
Never venturing out past nine
O’clock; for fear of what she’d find?
Melancholia presented herself
Alone in the attic, bare before a mirror.
He was the window, the panes, the
Sky, the sun. Gazing through the
Aperture of breeze through curtains.
They danced poetic, courted
Each other’s muses and stripped
Their ideas down. With never less
Than her petticoat, she told
With her body the story he’d read
In the covers of those volumes.
There’s a big gap between the writing of this poem and the one that came before – that’s not to say I didn’t write anything. Just that looking back now I didn’t like any of them!