Emptiness is a kiss on the cheek,
barely brushing the bone behind skin,
needling at structure too slightly to ever see
until deep in the white is an irreversible knife.
Aching comes as the thought of an embrace;
the gesture unspoken, unwanted,
unknown when confined to literature and portraiture;
alien if never seen or felt.
I remembered it in songs written about anyone but us,
never heard by us,
never known by us.
I remembered playing pretend in the twilight as our sun set,
tracing makeshift constellations with my fingers,
the surface of the sky bending to the will of fable.
It only needs sustenance at the assurance of shared words.
Bled from supposed coping,
now the palette of the storyteller,
let the Greeks romance what I demonstrate miles above our heads.
Codified into the study of condition and fitness,
the character I step into can enter in the alphabet of stars.
Ask a question to challenge it as I find the will to create it:
What if eyes are only as good as our minds,
and fear holds the reins when loosened by consciousness?
These reservations are furniture stains,
stubborn against the methods that work to wipe the woe.
What if a cluster’s lines are not the meeting of intersection,
and parallel lines are what we come to be defined by?
These limitations are the imaginary numbers,
understood as existent but their purpose disputed.
Coy penmanship can replace the blanks of ripped-out pages with equations,
measure distances and trick the answer to zero.
I could see the geometry of you and me in songs we didn’t make,
we never wrote,
we never heard.
You replied without an inquiry to spare,
but the answer to that which was lodged in my chest,
cracked by an emptiness biding its time with an irreversible knife:
It wasn’t that it wasn’t there,
but what was there wasn’t shared,
and it wasn’t wanted.
( ❤ Mitch)