Even Coffee Can't Fix This

This couch cushion is my ship through
slumbering seas. I am afloat on a leather-
covered oasis, dry but not warmed in the sun
on an afternoon when I’d like nothing better
than arms around me, a chest to rest my head
a coccoon of blankets to keep the heat
deeper, to my bones. I cannot lift my arms.
I can’t stretch or shake free. Tired is a trap,
especially when it’s paired with the sucking
greed of depression despite the meds,
the exercise, the eating right, the oils,
the support, the love. Cover me in branches,
make this ship a bier. The only way to warm
this heart is to set the couch on fire.