A gust of nothing

I scribble to confirm I have nothing to say. My need for you exceeds itself, and I retreat defeated, scribbling for no one, for nothing, yet still for you. I want to speak to you as though I never had the power to speak for myself. I rush ahead in the only mortal sin: impatience. Yet I’m not afraid to name you, to address you, even I, who barely exists, a dust mote in a shaft of light. Shameless. I silence you by naming you, lose you by addressing you. But not to name and address you would be no less untrue. And still I remain to be seen, to speak and to be heard. Do I know more or less about myself than X does, more or less about you? I don’t know, that too remains to be seen… A gust of nothing, my God.


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