“Nothing,”
I said,
and that was all I meant
and knew
and felt
when you asked what I thought of when I thought of me and you.
Us, together.
A downward turn of your eyes, you don’t quite know
how every springtime can be a little death of unbearable happiness for me,
but I fall in love in winter when things turn to dust,
grey in the pale twilight fading into an empty black.
I can’t tell you how hollowness makes me gasp,
and the lack excites me
the same way a mirror does
the reflection speaking of now and now is the realization
of fleeting waking desires drawing me down into the void.
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