Depression Room

She is finished cleaning her room.
Her "depression room" she calls it.
The crumpled notes and envelopes strewn across the desk have been
Ironed out and piled neatly,
Like flags of dead nations.
The empty plastic water bottles have been
Swept into a bin
And the sprawling peaks and puffs of plaid laundry mountains have been
Collected in a singular, central location.
Except for my jeans.
They stayed on the floor, right where they were hastily deposited.

Before she finished cleaning her room
I laid under a heavy pile
Of hoodies and tshirts,
Remarking that this was quite a comfortable pressure
Under which to sleep.
She suggested I purchase a weighted blanket.
I didn't have the words to tell her
That the position had already been filled, as
I didn't feel the need for a weighted blanket while she lay next to me.
She is, so much with me.
She is so much, with me.

She is finished cleaning her room and returns to me.
I lay my sleepy head on her shoulder.
She says "thank God; at least we know we'd be compatible".
It's a hollow offering,
Like so many Plans B that will never see the edge
Of the cutting room floor.
I do not thank God.
Now, driving home, I feel like I'm falling through a great space.
Like I have hundreds of miles of empty distance around me.
So much room.
So much depression room.

So I spend a little bit of time
Mourning the loss of something that was never mine,
Mending clothes that actually
Still have a lot of wear left in them,
Making remarks
To re-mark territory
That already has a flag
Buried in its wrinkles.
The flag lies fallow right now
But its nation could kick my ass.
Ironically, she's into that sort of thing.