We were walking scarside,
had been for a long time.
The wind sounded like fading bells,
the air smelled of singed salt.
I asked her how her heart was holding up.
Good, she smiled, it’s floating jellyfishlike
in a pool of warm liquid.
That’s where I drown my ______________.
The way she spoke blanks, like concrete flatlines,
stopped me. And drew me closer to her void.
I always fell for and into women’s voids,
headfirst, heartfirst, groinfirst,
it was hard to tell the order.
But absence was a death’s-head elixir, a potion
made from pines, bones, and frozen bees.
I told her–Did you know
that the closer you get to a black hole
the slower time runs?
Is ……………… that ……………….. true ……………
she slo-moed her speech and movements, a dying reel
equal parts eerie and comical.
When she resumed regular speed, she kissed me
hard and quick, a hummingbird on high.
It was at the far edge of scarside
that she asked me–How is your heart doing?
I considered this, then responded,
My heart is _______________.
That’s where it’s most comfortable.
She smiled, I think savoring the jittery draft
of blankness, its throbbing drift,
then she stepped away
as I leaned into her void,