I never really thought it was this easy
to just completely loose that piece

that little piece of will that says live
and beats and pulses
and dances through you
some days tired and sluggish and
some days so feverish you think you might burst

I always assumed it was a progression
a downward spiral
a slow moving escalator
descending slowly to the depths of depression
dwelling first in the dim of irritation
then the twilight of apathy
before finally dipping down into the dark, unforgiving absence
of light that is…
sorrow

But it seems instead
that I just simply took a wrong turn somewhere,
one door short, or a hallway overshot
on my way to the lobby of my dreams and aspirations
ending up here
in the waiting room beside my memories and maladies
where my old toothbrushes had come to die
and my favorite socks with the holes in the toes where awaiting mending

Except I don't wear socks, so those'll never be darned
and everyone knows there's no use for old toothbrushes
or for girls who can't feel.

I always thought it'd be sadder, softer, sharper,
that slow, sinking, slide into the deep of my sorrow.

I never expected to turn the knob and find
that the room was in fact empty

Nothingness
with a side of aching, clawing absence.