Nothing, Notta Soul
by Charlotte E. Wilde
Pieces of my life will become the shards of our memories, the glinting fragments that refuse to let sleeping moments lie. A couch that keeps its secrets and a video that makes quiet hang from my ears like raindrops that woke the cars in the street and kept us from running for a time. But time, she holds her own mistress in her chest and we were never meant for attic lives, only grounded feet and nine pool balls that chance will have fall where they will– inconsistencies drive crazy to the edge of reason but reason never turned her head.
Tonight is the kind of night that reminds you what rocks are for: shipwrecks and the bottom of a glass, or glass menagerie where one should not throw stones. Lonely doesn’t remember your N-name but it remembers your touch and it forgets only prose and cons, only [forgetme] why nots. Lonely lies, lies selfishly wrapped up in itself and ignores the pleasing pleas and thank yous tossed its direction from the other side of illogical fallacies. Lonely is everything tangible erased except a manuscript and a smell, lonely is the [t]reason why [we’re not] but we were, weren’t we, after all.
I saw clear through the panic today, shaking limbs and a sickness that spread from fingertips to my heart that thumped out morse in my temples and chest until I forgot to count the zeros and the ones separating us, forgot again. But I remembered in the song tonight, sitting in my window when every car looked at me like you, reminding me of wise wine decisions. Reminding me of 10am heels clicked because it turns out there is ‘no place like home’ for a girl with ruby shoes and a heart of [fools] gold. There we go with [let’s] run-on [away] sentences and a heavy handed prose; you warned me and I saw, but wasn’t it just the egotism of looking for myself, finding me in you?
I wonder at not having enough to give when I gave it all. Or that you took everything I could, and still I wanted more.
And maybe there will be nothing left but so it goes and so I went, for today in the eye of that panic I remembered to be grateful and also how to share. Sometimes silence is all it takes but selfishness is a hard battle to bear when you’ve bared it all and not been found wanting, but you were wanting indeed.
Yes, it’s lonely at the bottom, but it can’t get worse.
And so goodbyes feel final as the finals and the good news should not shroud itself in waiting rooms or rooms that wait for you to remember their role. What’s in a name? I will call you nothing, perhaps, for nothing is something I can keep next to me without hurting a soul.
So you are nothing to me– the space between the words maybe, or even fingers, where you exist in my void. You are nothing but you fill me up like a glass when I forgot to smile and your mouth found its way home… because it turned out that nothing is fair.