Sad. Still.

My feet are cemented to the ground. I turn myself inward, into my head. And run.

I hold on so tightly to you, I'm sure your arm goes numb. If I don't, I fear I'll float away. A helium balloon tied to a child's wrist. But the bow is too loose. I need to cling.

Good grief, enough already. My sadness flits by every so often but normally doesn't stick about for so long. This one is lurking about in the corner, looking at me with its' glinting eyes. Back off, you bastard, you're making me too watery, I might wash down a drain and into the sea. Away.

Apologies for this morbid morosity. Normal service will resume shortly. The grey, twisting mists of sadness even cause me to make up vocabulary it seems. Is morosity even a word?