Without substance. Once my fingers slid down a silk ribbon. It burned. It turned. In my grasp.
I felt the tension.
It gave. And splintered. Shredded.
Was present. There.
Now, my fingers wave through empty air.
I twirl beautiful nothings.
Bone thin hands atop tiny wrists, mimicking old actions. Nothing to hold on to now.
Tricked by a moment.
Forget it.
Withdraw. Far away.
Perhaps the world will steady itself again.
And my hands will link to another solid again.
My butterfly shadow puppets, empty reaching. There is nothing before me now. Why did I mistake an attractive shadow for a pillar? I touched something once. Or at least, I thought.
I will at least never honestly know. And never be satisfied.
Ill fitted and discontent in these bones and skin.
I want to call you home. But I hum noiselessly to myself. Petting and stroking the nothing air.
Remembering the silk ribbon...
the beautiful burns...
which now
yield
nothing.
