Sometimes Poem by Isamar Carrillo

There is a kind of sadness
that spreads on my cheekbones;
that makes my lips stay still
and my eyebrows rise.
River turned pond.

There is a kind of sadness
that freezes grins
and makes my pace slow
and heavy.
Spring turned winter.

There is a kind of sadness
that
makes me sit still and stare
at a world no longer mine.
Star turned to vacuum.



They call it melancholy.


I wonder why.