The biggest lie you've ever been told is that if it was good when it was there, you'll ache in its absence. That your labor of love will leave a hole its exorcism, and that THAT is what you'll want for, when it's time to face the void, whatever that looks like for you.
For me the void is sleep and death and silence and dreaming and orgasm and the space between my neurons and too many decisions and too many feelings and too many thoughts to ever spit out but knowing that it has to make sense anyway, it just has too. These words began to try to fill the void, but they made a million little new ones and so I knew that it was futile. But these words are not the singularity at the center, they do not displace the abstract ether that I created just to fill you up with details like your taste in books or your websites in my browser history or the color of your car.
These words are the problem, the impossible approximation of the the places I've been and the faces I've kissed and the smells that I learned to love while I was missing you. And when I wonder if you ever changed the sheets on the bed where I learned what hatred really was, it's not because there's a hole in me where you used to be, it's just the echo of a feeling that speaks in your voice, the one I memorized and internalized for the sake of keeping you close, and borrowed on more occasions than I will ever allow myself to admit.
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