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It is the mundanity of the act,
of envisioning your hand gently wrapped around the copper kettle.
Obstinately gripping the pen, while you wring a sheet of paper dry for the right words.
You, cupping my face as if you were holding something precious.
As if I might slip through your fingers.
It is this devastating simplicity that obliterates every shard of my being.
A brick wall, left at the mercy of a gleaming sledgehammer
that is determined to turn everything to dust.

I see your hands everywhere.
In the haze of steam and shower curtains,
the lines dragged in velvet throw pillows,
the cloudy smudges left on a glass of water.
They run faint paths through my hair, their touch ghosts against my eyelid.
If I stare long enough,
your palm is right there, pressing into mine.
Silver cuts through the air and delivers a redundant blow.
The dust scatters once more.

You did not leave a hole
the way everyone said you were bound to.
Empty space cannot exist without everything that surrounds it, yields to it, forgives it,
validates its gaping hollowness.
Empty space is a needle and thread on the dresser, a sellotape dispenser on the desk, a container of soup left on the doorstep with a get-well-soon scribbled on the lid.
Empty space is where you can see remnants of what once was whole.
The faith and conviction that bit by bit, you will put your fragmented pieces back together again.

The nothing you left was so thick and suffocating
that it permeated every room,
filled my lungs to bursting capacity and left me gasping for more.
Its sickly, bitter fragrance danced relentlessly in my nostrils,
as though my suffering was the sweetest symphony ever heard.
It waltzed until I could feel it rising in my throat and leaking from my eyes,
twirled until my head spun.
The nothing you left insisted on making its presence known my every waking moment
and then gleefully romped its way into my nightmares.

It was so quiet, though.
A resigned quiet, like that of the ****** swinging in the gallows,
when everybody holds their breath to watch the pendulum sway.
The crossbeam glistens with last night’s rain and
they trudge back home, muttering to themselves as the dust settles beneath their feet.
I sink into sheets creased by your fingers and watch it sway.
toleomato Jul 12
When faced on questions
of nothingness
one must ask
if meaning had been supposed.
In light of this,
even the greatest of disgraces
can be weathered,
the greatest of heartaches
can be understood.

Must one question
the implication of nothingness?
Surely, you understand.
It is something always present
and only uncovered,
to be learned
time and time again.

If nothingness breaks your heart,
you have presumed
that it was not nothing
from the start.
It is a matter of expectation,
one which could have never been true.
The self-learner and the student both realize that "I" have learned nothing over and over again.
Information is just a tool for recognizing qualities,
and will forever be preserved in its innocence/stupidity.
What had always been an exchange business
Now turned into a Full Moon’s beam
Gleaming on the faces of all, reposting to glimmer mine.

Things that once were precious to me
had imbued me with self-esteem and
heaped in the hope of happiness only to get
through my head the futility of sipping from
a cup containing capricious juice of joy.

How relaxing and joyous is the way of
giving away the adored agglomeration!
Just as a flower blossom when it gives off
its nectar for a bumblebee to slurp and survive

How did this ecstasy of altruism seep in?
Maybe I became receptive to the wind of
Grace that always knocks at the doors
of deaf, dumb, and blind - blowing away
the boundaries of the self and the heart that
I knew in illusion -
As if everyone and everything is mine
And I dissolve my very being into them.

🥰 भैरवी जय भैरवी 🥰
When the wish is to become 'Shoonya' so that nothing of self remains, Joy is just one more consequence.
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