Concrete-ing Melancholy

It's like an obsession with salt
sprinkled on watermelon cubes
kept like a small hill in transparent glassware
between the thumb and forefinger
I pick the white grains and sprinkle
in circular fractals , radii always less
than plate circumference
I see the act of their soundless disappearance
inside red placenta
their bodies speedily unrecognizable
I lick my fingers
this is the almost behaviour of misery
in river of normalcy of world
I am aware of the visible desires of my body
you call over phone and say "can't make it for brunch"
the loud myna interrupts the tide
of gorgeous silence around me
I sink the fork in juicy pieces
and leave the dining
my immature hunger hardens into
a shapeless melancholy