We are afraid of things—

I tell you “spiders,”
with their chitin joints and
clicking mouths and horrible fur
and their eyes set in their heads
like black jewels in a demon’s crown,
they are the things that sway me;

You say,
I fear death—

I fear that nothing comes next when
we die.

I try to imagine your nothing
but I only imagine mine
vacant rooms colored blank,
gaping black space and sound sleep
with no room for peace
or terror—

or maybe death is that same thought
repeated forever:
nothing, nothing, nothing.