(w)hole
It's like a hole. I have mine, you have yours, the same hole with different spaces. It's an expanse, a space where someone should be. What can you do? The vacuum has invaded. The place is vacant. There's no way to fill this hole. It just sits there. It swallows the words that would have been answered. It takes the time we should have spent talking.
We can ignore the hole, the space, the empty place where someone should be, but when we stop thinking, stop ignoring, stop living from day to day to day to day the hole's still there, and nothing will fill it, nothing can fill it.
Sometimes I dream you're still with us. We're all sitting around in the pub. It's evening, a summer evening. We're outside, at a large table. Everyone's there - everyone you knew, everyone I know. We sit there talking and drinking. Smoking. The air is warm, the conversation is quiet and dimmed. I sit on the outside, up in the sky. I watch you approach the table. We greet you. You sit down and talk and laugh and drink and smile. Everything's fine, everyone's happy.
When I wake it takes a while to remember the hole, the space, the empty place that used to be you. Then I cry.
