What can I do to contain the presence that isn’t here? Take my fear, tie it into knots around his neck, raise the window, and let out the dark as his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream?
The door opens and absence returns. I wash everything again, dripping silence onto the bare floor where I stand unsupported. The stains won’t come out of the air. They remain, unmoving, like the clock whose numbers have blurred into thick ghostlights. Unclean, these words piled up like dirty dishes, this blackness that sucks all reflections into the other side of the mirror.
Is dead ever really dead? Is dead ever the ending of anything until all beginnings cease? Can the universe uncreate being, collapse time beyond infinity, disintegrate energy into its opposite? Become a vortex spinning itself into a before that never
gone, gone, gone?
For dVerse prosery, where Bjorn has given us a phrase from Maya Angelou: “his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream”.