I am like an old and dented cookie tin
the one that’s been emptied and is now used for spare buttons and odd shaped pieces that fall off of things
and pennies found rolled and hairy under the couch.
I am like a plant that died upright,
propped in a corner and no one has noticed yet
that the hollow leaves are slowly crisping.
I am like a locket that never held a photo of anyone I actually knew,
it was of a model family,
and I kept it for a while
then finally threw it away
because it didn’t fool anyone
And I know empty should feel like a malady that needs a cure.
something that needs me to fight,
empty feels right.
When wine is put improperly into bottles it explodes.
maybe my bottles need to stand alone,
and hold only dust,
Maybe I am lighter when empty,
maybe I can be lifted more easily
I don’t know
my directions are a vague wave of the hand…
as long as it’s some place
And if on the journey I hear a tinny rattling
maybe there will be an old button still wedged in a corner,
still a little sparkle,
even while forgotten,
even while alone.
A hedge against the terrible silence of empty fields.
And maybe the dust will keep me warm enough to stand still in the cold night
and count the strange stars.
Maybe empty is an invitation…