euananthony

Hollow. They shake their head, hoping something might fall out, but it doesn’t. It’s empty. They lift it up, press their eye against their ear and peer into the dark tunnel. Is anyone in there? But there’s no reply, not even an echo.

Some days are like this. The writer stares at the dishes drying on the rack in the kitchen. They could stare for an hour without a single thought creeping to the surface. Two hours pass. What are you doing?

Control. The writer mourns what they never had. The silence taunts them. Can you hear that? It says. But the writer hears only absence. Exactly, the silence sings. And you’ll never get them back.

Nausea, like that of vertigo, swirls in their head. It is something at least. A reason to act. Perhaps I’ll go out in the rain. But the writer fears the feast.