I know

gold lines hem it all
spot blank spot blank
highway rhythms of
when not to pass

one day I think you
will find my hand
at your neck, gentle
firm, and drawing out
all of what makes you,
you

Nothing

I am nothing, contain nothing. Always have
or haven't. It gets fuzzy
just don't look at it too hard
so you don't get dizzy

There are times that I almost did it
managed to feel real blood in my hands
always when someone near me died
my nothing seemed paltry in comparison

I'm more of the "What did you do today?"
or "is there something you're not telling me?"
that sort of nothing, the sort
that can still fill a void if it wants

like the dark of your home, when you
are a child trying to be brave
a nothing filled to the brim
with beasts that don't exist

When I die they will ask
"Who is it being buried?"
"No one" will be the reply
"That's a shame," they'll sigh
"I never knew them."