Waterloo.

You first came across her
at the Amtrak station in Waterloo,
sprawled across a kelly green bench
in a romper and sandals,
humming a Dolly Parton song.

You were instantly captivated
but didn't dare disturb her peace.
She was writing in a small leather
journal and you wondered what
color her thoughts were.

She looked up at you and smiled,
only once, sunlight streaming
from her tangerine hair, dimples wide.

You didn't see her for another two years,
and when she reappeared, it was at a
funeral. You found her perched outside
the chapel, smoking a Marlboro
and drawing mandalas on her arms with
a silver Sharpie.

This time, she asked all about you.
You let your guard down. She said she'd
see you again, real soon, and you walked
away feeling a little less gloomy,
like you had a friend.

She started to visit you in secret,
always in a new place,
always surrounded by nature.
You didn't mind; she gave you an
escape from reality, her touch
leaving fragrance on your skin.
Gardenias one day,
cherry blossoms the next.
You hoped she felt the same
passion as you did when you said
hello, then goodbye.

The visits ended when you became
more independent.

Then one night, you fell into
self-destructive habits, and you caught
a reflection of her silhouette outside
the windowsill. You dashed outside,
questioning if this could be real, and
she embraced you with the force of
a thousand tides.
You made love in the greenhouse
that night, quietly enjoying ecstasy
in a symphony of cicadas and owls.
Her wrists held crescent moons and
their light entranced you
in ways one couldn't understand.

You could barely breathe the next
morning. She left you trembling on
the dirt, palms muddied, legs sore,
only the taste of lavender remaining.

Your body ached for her.
Your lips - parched without her.
You couldn't sleep, couldn't eat,
couldn't focus on anything at all.

She never gave you a signal,
simply appeared when you were the most
lonely, when you craved her and
couldn't fall asleep without the memory
of her touch.

You now know her as depression.
How she loves to disguise herself, giving
you illogical hope, a ruthless fantasy,
only to smile and strip it all away.