down

a morning of masks and disguises—
each sound that comes from my mouth to them
at odds with a shapeless weight my shoulders bear.
what is it?
a glance, a despairing feeling, and we look down at our feet.
still down, my eyes go to the sky, to the sun.
it was golden when i awoke
and now warm, melting winter bit by bit,
but still i stand before a shadow,
always between the sun and my shadow…
they see me as usual,
but i am the shadow today.