when it hits, there are no words.

the drive, the glow, the kind air
disappeared from my heart a long time ago,
it seems, and this is nothing but the last part of the breakdown,
not so much as an aftershock
than the very aftermath.
i cannot break down if i am long gone;
i cannot speak if i am empty—

and i am just empty,
a quietly sitting void, a patch of vapor.
the words do not come to me, and here i sit,
artless.
i think,
this is where the anger should be,
burning somewhere in the back of my mouth,
or, this is where the sadness should come,
turning my eyes to water,

but it doesn’t. it doesn’t.
and so there i sit, then,
empty.