Words of Love

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Something between a stream of consciousness and an actual poem. A few thoughts about someone I used to think I knew. Someone I thought I was much closer to than I actually was.

The emptiness that stills my heart

Steals my breath

Stalls my pulse

Leaves me paralyzed, too frightened to go on living

So much was said — an endless cacophony of brave, magnificent noise

And yet somehow, at the same time, nothing at all

White noise

Between billows of beautifully rendered smoke and delusion

Sat an empty chair

And it's elegantly nihilistic occupant who was never really there

You could no longer tell who it used to be

Only that it was vacant now

The voice that seemed to belong to no one at all but kept talking anyway, was still there

So I continued to listen, anxious as I anticipated,  

Certain that it would all make sense in time,

Sometimes I could see someone — a speaker, prime mover

A silhouetted figure, somehow sacred, auspicious, wavering on the edge of coming into existence

For decades I waited, listening steadfastly, for the beautiful noise to become something meaningful

Something that might move one to weeping

A seraphim song that heals as it listens

But in all the long years of lingering at the edge, of holding my breath, afraid to speak lest it be missed

The nothing merely continued, murmuring to itself with great relish,

Praising it's own melodious meaninglessness, its lyrical cynicism, as it went on and on

Until I ran out of breath — not of patience

And feeling war-weary and ancient, finally rose from my seat

And went on my way, stopping to listen every few paces,

To the ceaseless banter of nothing at all being said

 

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