Sit sad, you have come to visit me, even if you make me cry, sit down again! You have wrung tears from others, soaked yourself in their sorrow! Sit sadly and let me embrace you to soothe myself and you both! Even knowing I'll stir old wounds, we'll speak of them later, Sadness! Betrayals bitter as wormwood— we will carry them through the night. They will fade only into grey shadows, and I will try to forgive them all! For the wrongs I committed, you will surely remind me now, but the moments I let slip away, they cannot return, Oh Sadness! Sit sad, you have come to visit me!
# Sadness Sadness is a room where the light comes in slant, where dust motes dance like the last thoughts before sleep. It is the sound of rain on a tin roof at three in the morning, the kind that makes you remember a face you've tried to forget. Sadness sits at the kitchen table with your coffee growing cold, traces circles on the wood with one finger, over and over. It knows your name the way an old friend knows it— not with surprise, but with the weight of recognition. Sadness doesn't roar. It whispers. It lingers in the space between what you wanted and what came to pass. Sometimes it tastes like salt. Sometimes like the inside of your own mouth when you've been quiet for too long. Sadness is patient. It will wait in your chest like a bird that has forgotten how to fly, folding its wings again and again, learning the shape of surrender.
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