Of All The Stories I've Written, I Share With You, Stranger, These Few

Nothing/Everything

It's the silence after a concert,
the late Thursday morning in mid November,
walking through a school during the summer
and wincing at the emptiness
and the dark halls.
It's fuzzy
and sharp,
quiet
and loud,
neutral
and opinionated.
An empty 'I love you' after New Years Eve.
Early morning,
too early to be anything,
it's a busily quiet office,
dull eyes and drool.
It's tunnel vision
and deafening silence
that you can't shut out,
its distant screams.
Its water,
its voices all at once,
its a language you can't understand.
Music you don't know the lyrics to.
Confusion.
Clearity.
Last names.
Middle names.
Maybe.
I don't know.
It's sitting in the middle
of an empty apartment building
alone in the dark
listening to the neighbors
scream about divorce.
It's the end of all things.
A joke that never landed.
Raising your hand
and never getting called on.
A graveyard full of ghosts
that you can't see.
It's nothing.
It's everything.