Emptiness is no void,
nor lacking, nor nothing,
but a tangible infection,
a virus that plagues
the remnants of what used to be,
A swelling parasite,
draping shadow,
black as ink, heavy,
thick and potent.
Spawned of the last tear,
wiped dry with the pretense
of resolve or acceptance,
sweeping over you
numbing your senses.
Slowing the heart,
tightening itself around your chest,
lolling the head
and drooping the eyes.
All the fight is gone,
with that last tear,
that last trace of feeling.
Slowly it consumes you,
your toes, your feet,
the tips of your fingers,
your chest, your chin,
the tip of your lower lip
until you are drowning
and all you're left with
is this handful of blue little pills
and their promise of relief,
an eternal sleep
where emptiness can't find me.
When I look back,
will it be my tears,
or you,
I blame for running out, I wonder.
