Melted Depression

Lying down, an ice cube on my naked breast—
named sorrow; it melts with cold
waters running down my sides,
matching the downcast tears in my eyes.

The cube is cold, seemingly without reason;
perhaps that is its hard-fated nature,
or maybe a reaction to surrounding heat—
heat that melts with uncommon cruelty.

The cold water stings: its icy
grip a painful reminder of
the hurt in my heart, which
yearns for relief, for hope.

With cloth I try to take away the wetness,
but it will not work; still remains
the ache of emptiness—gone is
the water, but not the pain.