So far so far so empty in this part.

I poke my finger in the dent, harder, harder...see if it could fill the void where maybe I thought you could, he could, she could…

But now here’s the thing.

It's only a physical act; I will only press against the cavity until it's sensitive, until it's tender and red and even then, even then it will not stop me.

Unbearable constant, necessary motion in me.

Bold finger that keeps prodding will bend and bend until it hears a crack; an uncomfortable ripple that breaks the barrier of concentration of what I was trying to attempt.

The repetition won’t fill this depth.

Breath

Why fill what is meant to be dark space?

Does the moon fill her spaces?

No.

You fill yourself upon hers.

You turn your head towards her gaze and absorb — how much lovelier she is with all her fractures; all her lonely parts displayed.

She is to be beheld

But never to be held.

So far so far so empty.

Right.

Here.

Poke.