The Deep Damp

The door clicks shut, a final sound,

and then the air, so thick around.

It’s not just cold, it’s wet and deep,

a promise that the grey will keep

for weeks, perhaps for months, it seems,

killing the sun, stealing all my dreams.

My breath goes out, a puff of white,

then melts away, lost in the light

that isn't light, just weak diffusion,

a heavy, slow, concrete delusion.

My shoulders hunch, a reflex old,

against the story I've been told

by every ache, each finger numb,

that life is just this coming glum.

The dampness crawls, a creeping thing,

beneath my skin, refusing spring.

It settles deep, into the bone,

and makes me feel so starkly alone.