Swirling sloshes of numbness rest.

The barren, disinterested cave is moist only because it is closed.

A stranger swats at someone’s longing like a pesky gnat; they don’t know what they have crushed…

We hide.

We hide to escape the Weight.

Friction has chafed and rubbed till raw.

A dance that is always too much, but also never enough.

We disappear into the box and find the driest, dustiest corner.

We compulsively lick our wounds.

We silently yearn to be absorbed by the box.

‘It can be warm!’ we exclaim.

Hope turns to dread…the box is stale and dry.

A cloud ambles in–alive.

We forget about the box.

We swat at the cloud like a pesky gnat, not knowing what we’ve done.

We forget who we are.

Nothingness does not look back…

…it haunts…