{ Emptiness }

I look around my empty apartment.

The walls are bare,

Screaming at me through the blank abyss of a white

That is not so very white

And a nakedness that is clothed in scuffs and stains.

The dishwasher hums in unison with the box fan,

Each one whispering of a tomorrow that will be spent in other places--

Away from here--

Some place where the walls are silent because they are draped in color.

But for now,

As I sit next to boxes piled one on top of the other, on top of the other,

On top of the other,

I realize that my life has been half deconstructed,

My good-byes are half way over,

And my will to keep pushing more than half way spent.

Because I am tired.

And the tension in my muscles has slacked so that the task of moving

From point A to point B

Seems insurmountable.

And these eyes--

The ones that eagerly devoured my environment several months ago--

Only want to be tucked in by my soft eyelids.

They are tired of looking at this disheveled apartment,

And I don't blame them.

My year--with its memories and its heartaches--has been stuffed in

Cardboard.

And somehow, the memories seem less rosy

The more they are packaged in boxes.

There is a burning in my veins,

And there are sobs creeping up the walls of my throat--

Waiting to break free from my mouth.

So I keep my lips wedged together, hoping that I will not be asked

To speak,

Because then I will not be able to keep myself from crying--

And now is not the time for that.