You asked what it is
It is not the rain.
It is not a deep well, or
anything else dark or dank.
It is not ash and flame.
It is green spring with unacknowledged birdsong,
applause for someone staring into space,
flawless sentences misconstrued,
love that doesn’t count.
It is habitual coffee, untasted,
a once-beloved book, unremembered,
a birthday text, unanswered,
untrusted and feared.