seasonal depression | Anagha Smrithi

Winter blooms upward like clouds of smoke. Dark-cherry sky.
When I wake, the last dizzy stars are fading.
A muffled blue light blinks at the corner of the sky and I know that morning is here.
It is cold. I hold my feet in my palms, press into the pale soles until the hum of blood
grows loud beneath my skin; strange life-song, the only one I know on mornings like these.
December already. Dust and winter light. Diaphanous cracks in the sky.
The days turn like slow planets, shifting on quiet axes, half-dipped in shadow.
It is cold. I open my mouth to blow cool breath over warm tea,
waiting for the steam to touch my cheek with the lightest of fingers.
No matter the season, we are animals at dawn; scuffling awake into a mournful silence,
holding our faces to any small heat. Afternoon already.
It is cold. I show up at your door and you let me in. I come in with my winter bones,
my winter mouth, my dull winter hands, ready to come apart.
Crossing my legs and sitting across from you at your table,
I can feel the thin shape of heat move between us.

Outside, trees murmur in the wind. Birds cry out. (life-song)
We whisper at each other with our eyes and then say nothing at all.

Anagha Smrithi is a 26 year old writer based in Bangalore, India. Her work has previously appeared in Anthropocene, Hellebore Press and Nether Magazine, among others. She writes about the body and everyday spaces. For more of her work, find her newsletter on the poetics of everyday life over here.