Nothing sits quietly in the corner,
wearing a crown of invisible velvet,
its pockets stuffed with air,
its shoes untied,
yet it trips no one.
I asked Nothing for advice once.
It shrugged,
which felt like an earthquake,
because emptiness has weight
if you stare at it long enough.
Nothing is the silence
between a laugh and a sigh,
the pause before you say
“I love you”—
and the echo when no one answers back.
But it’s also a clown,
spinning cream pies
made of clouds and static,
slipping on banana peels
that aren’t even there.
Nothing holds my hand at night,
whispering jokes in the dark
about how it once got mistaken
for everything.
And we laughed until
tears watered the absence.
So here’s to Nothing—
that hollow, that mirror,
that silly, tragic friend
who gives us all the space
to dance,
to cry,
to create,
to fall into the abyss
and land, somehow,
on joy.
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