depression.

you are on empty.

you are on nothing.

you are on zero.

you run on the dry leftover energy from the corners of your bones.

your scenarios are like sandpaper.

words are formed from ink, not love.

not hate.

not passion.

one-word answers are as heavy as 100.

love is only part of a conversation,

and that conversation doesn't matter.

you are on empty.

you are on orange-light-emergency that doesn't shake your bones,

a fire that doesn't give off heat.

you are nightmares that don't spike your heart rate.

kisses that don't spike your heart rate.

death that won't spike your heart rate.

you are a flat heart rate with open eyes,

whose smile only stays because you're too dead to change it.

you are a pulse that lost momentum long ago 

and fell in a grave when no one was watching.

you have a stack of eulogies locked behind the bedroom door,

keeping the sins out and the prayers in.

or vice versa.

you are the leaves on the trees whose stems are close to snapping,

because cold seasons know how to kill

almost as well as our souls do.

the leaves are dead.

the grass is dead.

but you are not dead.

you are not dead.

your heart just isn't beating.