Slow Burn: A Poetry Collection

There Was Nothing Here

There was magic here

when the ground

was even

When the hole in my chest

wasn't sputtering

When expectation

wasn't so hopelessly

impossible.

There was magic here

when we weren't choking

on ruin

Despite

respite

we are aching here

among this sorcery

and even in the emptiness

we thought things

could have been different

We hoped

but by the blinking of our eyes

desperate for her company—

there was nothing here