The space gets less blank as I type, but it’s like the words are blank, too.
I could sit and speculate instead of focusing my anxiety.
I could wait for it to dissipate.
It’s nothing; these words are nothing.
You’re staring at empty whiteness, trying to discern, extract, fabricate meaning
Like it’s modern art.
A secret code, but there’s nothing secret about it. Just a void.
But I see something, and not because I make it appear.
It’s there. Words sinking into an abyss, chasing gravity.
Do I follow? Do I wait?
Will I end up wishing you would come back when you’ve been right beside me all along?