the Void within


There is a part of me that is made of wax.
It lies between my ribs. Somewhere between the throat and the stomach. Right at the centre. A fist-sized portion maybe, its size varying with time.
In tender moments of love, fear or anxiety, the wax melts. Giving way to a space that is void. An aching vacuum of nothing. Life keeps happenings on the sidelines, the mind witnessing it with the detached patience of a disinterested audience.
Tears don’t sting the eyes. They flow without pause or permission, quenching the pillow that has smelt only oil and shampoo. The voice remains placid, speech tempered. The quiet of a death fills that empty space between my bosom.
There are times when the void cracks, the crevices going up and down, tearing skull and toes. It pains. A wincing sort of physical pain that forces me to seize it with the flat of my palm and press it hard. Breathing returns to normal, but that deafening silence remains. That high-pitched siren in the ears never quite ending. Consciousness floats on the puddle of existence like the discarded foil floating in rain-drains. Direction-less.
Tell me, won’t you allow me to hold you face at that centre and fill it back with life? And will you stay there…for as long as I ask? Won’t you allow my marrow and bones and blood and veins to be reformed? You are the agent of my life, you know. Won’t you return it to me?


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