THE CLOSET MYSTIC

the doctor told me it’s depression—

clinical, “major.”

what a strange name,

“major.”

so quietly 

did it siphon the life from me.

I could hardly tell its fangs

were in my neck—

he is a thief

with sleight of hand,

collecting 

precious moments for sport.

I imagine 

he has a shelf in his home— 

snippets of time 

pickpocketed.

my birthdays in globes.

hold one close:

candle light, dancing shadows,

and a smile

that does not reach the eyes.

I’m not there,

no—

where was I?