Falling. Not hard fast, roof to concrete, flat. Pavement stain.
Falling. Not motion slow, dream, down down. Abyss pain.
Falling. Heart and mind one, you and I one. Blanket to pillow remain.
I had a conversation with a friend the other day. For as long as I’ve known them, we’ve had these conversations, like if you were talking with someone over the same perpetually hot, never empty coffee for weeks at a time.
The kind of conversation with no beginning or end.
And at some point, each of us talked about emptiness. About the feeling of having nothing left inside ourselves to give to others, because we have nothing left inside ourselves for us.
The friend told me about the times I was there for them but, for whatever reason, had forgotten.
Then the friend told me this…
“Bill, you are not empty.”
I wanted to argue, but I’m smarter than that. Barely. So I wrote this note to myself, instead.
And now, I share it with you.
“You are not empty.”
A spontaneous game of hide and seek between an alley and a vacant lot. In a bold moment of childlike faith, two kids hid themselves in plain sight, behind a weather-worn For Lease sign.
In case you wondered, at the end of the game, they weren’t “it”.
NaBloPoMo 2018 will be (for me) a combination of Instagram-friendly posts… of short poems and square photos… in anticipation of an entirely new direction for 2019. This month, I will also be giving details on my very soon forthcoming third book, Mourning Person, and any other really nifty information on what’s new with our publishing house, Silver Star Laboratory.
I’m glad you’re here. See you tomorrow.