The ease of this blankness which is not empty space, which is absence into which I sink my teeth and I pull away with nothing still between them. I pull away with the ease of emptiness, which, having spoken, cannot hold still. Poke it again to see if it still hurts. It still hurts. Poke it again to see if it responds. It responds. Cry out again to see if it is listening. It still hurts. Cry out again to see if it still hurts. It responds. The window flaps open and the roar of motorcycles on the highway deadens the moment. The window hinges creak and the silence is momentary. The window blows closed. The roar of motorcycles continues to annoy. And some other sounds, voices drift by. Just try to hold on, hold on.
Another instance, in which you were just there. You were there eighteen years ago, conveniently also someone's age. You were there when the wall came down. You were there eating cake. You were there and then. You weren't. You were opening. Busy is an adequate substitute for age. I'd be black and white. And you'd be white and black. Busy is an adequate substitute for color. The picture was playing but there was no sound. Or, you just weren't there. As if a space, an indentation, could make all the difference. And it could. As if this space were an adequate substitute for difference. For another instance. For your presence, which is conveniently somewhere else. (And it could.)
Just now, a free light show to the east, the horizon expects me. I am horizontal, the vertical expects a light show to the east, a daunting performance. Who points across several state lines to accuse me of absence. The war itself is not over but missing, the news site assures me. So what have I got to lose?
