Wait For Me, Melancholy.

He draws, but he's not a drawer,
Just clutter within him, no shelves for his thoughts of any weather.

He treads in ink, his footsteps are his keystrokes, his guitar strings,

For nothing else about him, around him, seems to be moving.

He is empty,
Like a hole in the ground,
Even if the stars are still visible from down below,
Still to be found.

He is my past,
He is the friend I threw down a rope to, a rope he grabbed onto at last.

This is not a story of a climb,
Nor a story of what's left behind.

This is a story of how I began to lose my mind,
After blinded by what I thought I'd find.

Fuck it. This is not a story.

"Right now, how you feel is how you feel,
Time will either change it to be better or worse,
But right now is right now,
And there is nothing wrong with now."