Amy Saul-Zerby:

SEASONAL AFFECTIVE DISORDER  

   NOTHING IS WHAT YOU THOUGHT IT WAS GOING TO BE   

  BUT THAT IS OKAY

I’ll be twenty-four   twenty-seven
next year

and I still don’t know   and now i know

how much time there is
in a year

but I can count backwards
to the day we met

and I can’t chart the phases
of the moon
of the moods
that marked
my waxing and waning interest

the tides that took you out
and brought you, finally, temporarily
back to me

 

now, I try to keep things my hands still

a port in the storms
a lighthouse
an ever-fixed mark
that looks on tempests

what can i say

despite everything

some things hold

I hold them close.

i am not who i was



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