Melancholia, don't call me, anymore.

4/07, on the same plane flight

Melancholia, don't call me, anymore;
My cell-phone is already packed full
of everyone else's problems, and
I've turned my ringer off - no, to vibrate,
in case my mother calls again.
I've checked my e-mail again and again
as I peel off the words and
attach them to my skin like an overcoat
of other people's emotions, from which
I refuse to be disconnected. Go ahead
and laugh at my sensitivity and
my armor of papered words and
selfless thoughts, but I cannot separate
myself from the world without
separating the world from myself, and
I fear the thought of being left alone
under the covers of my bed, drawn tight,
like a wiry pencil that can't write
back with disconnected words.
I fear the void, and being left behind,
just as much as I fear the familiar
ring of my cellphone, when one more
friend calls to dump on my the morning's
garbage, and leaving me without apology
to pick up my own pieces and wait
again for you, my melancholy, to
order me a rum and coke and play your cello
softly, at my bedside.