I’m good at making something out of nothing.

The matter and the substance

Of the passion and the numbness.

I give myself up. Over and over again, I let myself go.

---

Layers of pigment swaddling bones of clay.

Form to the word,

Presence.

I break myself down,

And rebuild again.

Making something out of nothing.

---

Solid black ink, lining the frills

Of brilliant colors and shapes,

Clarity.

I let them wash over me.

Making something out of nothing at all.

---

Boards of pine

Impressions of fire

Deep, burnt grooves

Permanence.

I set myself aflame,

Making something out of nothing.

---

“To leave without being left”

“To feel without being felt”

Why would I ever think I could be something more?

Isn’t this the nothing I wished for?