the consoling tricks of emptiness
the beige square of feeling nothing
there are no objects in the foreground
indifference massages spaces flat
it shapes an empty tunnel out of melancholy
it stares at black dots turning in the night
listening for hushes that never come
only imagining tears
but the eye from which they might flow down is not there
nor do sounds come from stillborn thoughts;
everything that happens, most sensations,
or even the noise of the street
add up to zero
the algebra of turning grey
zero at the end of every equals sign
still it smiles, then again —
like someone happy in their loneliness,
who knows why
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