Without you, there is hollow,
An existence of nonexistence.
I was on my bed when you sentenced me your crucifier, my words a noose around your neck.
Deemed my voice the guillotine of your joy,
when I didn't know which things to tread.
I poured my anger then,
on my teeth and the way they hammered;
on my temples and the way they shattered;
on my skin and the way it pleated.
I pleaded
to find myself through you,
to be with, to grasp, to comfort myself in truth.
Only to find—
nothing
but a screen screaming back at me.
Because
how could I?
Without you, there is hollow,
An existence of nonexistence.
I used to think it begged to be filled,
like paper yearning ink spilled.
That your place
should remain warm and dented—
a sacred imprint.
But I lie on the same bed still
and I have discovered that
there was nothing then,
and nothing in the end.
No cross,
no nail,
no noose,
no head.
And the space
where your presence laid
is now one with the pull.
The void
is never something
that I'd choose,
but it is only nature:
to love and lose.
