What This is, Is Nothing

This isn’t a hello
or a goodbye.

This isn’t how you color in
I’m sorry

This isn’t some metaphor
hidden in a sentence
wrapped in a cliche
that I thought was real
once upon a time

This isn’t anything,
but you’ll make it into something.

You’ll make it into poetry
You’ll make it into what ifs,
could have beens,
wouldn’t it have been nice.
You’ll make it into little white lies
that I used to tell myself
so I could fall asleep at night

And that’s okay
because it isn’t anything
that I can’t already imagine
you might think
or feel
or believe.

It isn’t anything to me except what it already is
It is nothing.
It is everything.
It is whatever you think it is,
regardless of what I say,
or what I meant.

It is solely potential energy
hanging in between us
waiting for one of us to make a move
to say something
to crave a closing of the space
to accept that some things change,
and others never do.

That’s all it will ever be,
a thoughtless thought
in the middle of the day,
involuntary and somehow necessary
and you forget it just like breathing,
so subtle and known
you barely notice it now
and you do nothing to encourage it
beyond the acknowledgement
that it is part of you
for better or for worse,
you will never shake the feeling
that it really could be something

but it isn’t anything
and that’s okay
because not everything
has to be something.


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