I don’t think it’s emptiness.
It might be a room, a world, full of stuff.
Quivering, stuck, overboiling, overcooked,
Waiting for apertures, overtures, air, and you slither
Through the cracks, rolling around in dust,
Caught in spiderwebs, trembling, insufficiently,
Yawning, never abandoned, and we holler and scream
Against the walls that grow and tremor, against ourselves,
The skins lacking warmth, the haunting cold stiff skin,
The texture that has nothing to do with you,
The scent, the chemicals, the non-you, the having-become-you,
Outside of yourself and back in, into us, my nostrils,
My fingertips, speaking to me in voices not your own,
In gestures I’m looking for, in all of my days, yours within mine,
I wander and succumb, sitting sideways, off the edges,
Alongside my ribcage, I hear myself scream and disintegrate,
Vanish in the thickness of resurrected woods,
I regurgitate your name across tree trunks
And beg on all fours, listen to me, listen to you,
Everything that binds us, lingers and tightens,
I revive, I survive, your name on my tongue
As if nothing happened, as if every single little thing happened,
You, happened, you did happen, still, emptiness, fullness,
Saturation.
Croque-Melpomene 