Tonight is nothing,
I am supposed to be nothing too,
or at least happy, and
to be sure,
this house is really nothing,
a nothing you once thanked me so much for,
but nothing can bring this nothing back.
Nothing acting on nothing.
The orange glow from the pub sign
atop the refrigerator with
the ice maker is nothing, and
the picture of you applying
mascara in the bathroom on the hall,
your bathroom, is, too, now nothing.
The oven stench from tonight’s
frozen pizza is nothing, and I fear that
where I sit here, in this room, and
write this is nothing, and I too, and
so is this nothing as well?
The times we made love on the living room floor,
atop a flea market throw will soon be nothing, and
only later will other lovers hear maybe an echo,
but ultimately echoes are nothing. Ultimately,
the Florida room is nothing,
and the 5000 packs of
cigarette smoke there is nothing,
as smoke always is.
This house is smoke,
this house is burning,
this house will soon be nothing
but a spot two blocks from where
you chose once, in my absence,
to carve our initials for the ages
into a mound of concrete,
and to then come back here,
when here was something.
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