the last piece doesn’t fit

working with nothing is what i do best:
it is lapping up the gold coins
of wishes unheard spraying in
all directions from a bird fountain—
there’s something beautiful about
trying to separate gold from bronze
in the darkness that prods at what is
amiss.

working with nothing is what i do best:
it is getting down on all fours to prey
on something unrecognisable and strange.
through the glass of the urn these ashes
are tamed and unmoving, deprived of the
winds that give them song and dance,
yet i’ve held nothing more alive in my eyes.

working with nothing is what i do best:
it is holding on to a drink for longer than you know you should,
being convinced that melted ice
shouldn’t be discounted as a beverage.
the bank notes exchanged for this thinly
stretched delight were grown from the soil,
just like coffee beans, you forget.

working with nothing is what i do best:
it is unveiling the lace that shields your face
and finding nothing but stolen glimpses of
the back of your neck,
or the introspection you press between your lips—
but still loving you the same,
undocumented and subdued, anyway,

always.

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