Depressed

Just lying. On the bed, one arm flat against the coolness of the cotton sheets. The other quite comfortable in that hollow above my hip.

Just listening. To the sound of the wind in the trees. Voices along for the ride. A siren in the distance.

Just wishing. That I could forget myself. Feeling my pulse flutter. A panicked beat in my thigh. Emptiness in my chest like something locked alone in a room without windows.

Just thinking. That I come here too often anymore. My palms sweating, my muscles trembling. Weights on my eyelids trying to convince the world I’m dead.

Just floating. In a still life painting amongst fruit and flowers. Their shadows giving them depth. Remembering a time when I looked forward to more than just sleeping.