lulls of silence—
wide-open meditative spaces
where everything is washed
and vacant,
stretching on into pale skies
in every direction,
void of anything
it is lonely, maddening,
a desert, my home
where i feel very small,
where there is nothing
to run towards—
they haunt me like shadows looming
on bedroom ceilings
above twin beds,
where i lie below, motionless
with a dream catcher
hanging on the wall above
my messy, braided hair and
chapped lips buried
into a pillow,
empty