The end comes many times, always
in different disguises: effervescent

plumes of sarcasm, barely veiled
accusations, buttoned-up

rancor. You fear the void
beyond the mask. Its hunger

for your porous bones. Its loneliness,
playing you like a flute.

It howls and you do too, you
don’t know better. What it takes

to quiet it down. Which voice
is truly mine. How does one tell

truth from its plausible shadow?
How does one plant both feet

in shifting sand? The morning demands
what it’s owed. Coincidence.

Luck. The blur of acceptance.
Such a vertiginous track to memory loss.

Recalling half-imagined slights
gets progressively harder.

That place in your mind shaped
like an absence, is it

mine? By midday, I’m already staring
at my hands. Have they always been

empty? If so, emptiness
must exist. It echoes my thoughts.

It responds, therefore it listens.
You know I would do

anything
for someone who listens.