Serotonin

If I could
I would feed you serotonin on a spoon.

If I could
I would pin daisies to the windows of your bedroom,
soft as you fall asleep,
but chest-deep is too far for placebo sweetness,
and I love you too much to lie.

You will not say goodbye
to your red-speckled eyes,
and it hurts
my love,
but I cannot promise 
an end to the empty nights.

Your heart cannot stop its rabbit-quick convulsions
any more than your lungs can give up air,
and the only spoon-fed serotonin 
will leave you more hollow than before,
I know.

I know you need a final day,
to count on, to count to,
to scratch onto the floorboards with your fingernails
but the best I can do
is tell you
that you will get better 
long enough
to breathe.

You will get better
long enough to wake up with a light chest,
rested
in clean sheets.

You will get better
long enough 
to enjoy the taste of cinnamon
and sugar dusting the edges of your lips,
long enough
to introduce yourself with a handshake instead of shaking hands.

You will get better
long enough to drive through town with the windows down,
and catch milkweed clusters in pinched fingertips.

You’ll get better
long enough to run your fingers through the hair of someone you love,
long enough
to paint through the quietest hours of the night, your hands alight with swatches of yellow and cobalt and aquamarine,
long enough
to taste real serotonin
and
fall asleep
at the right time,
because you aren’t afraid 
to wake up.

And the moment will pass.
And the feeling will pass.
And everything, everything will pass.

But for that small space in time,
I promise,
I promise -

you will be okay.