I don't know why I feel so hollow.
I do the inventory, and all the parts are there.
My heart still beats, my lungs fill, my blood still makes its rounds.
And yet, I just feel empty, eviscerated,
A shell of something almost human.
I prick a finger, and the pain is still sharp;
My head aches, and my teeth from where I've ground them.
There's nothing below the surface, though
No pain, no feeling, nothing but and echo;
A scream reverberating endlessly,
A sound I don't remember making.
My knees are feeling weak; my hands are numb.
It's strange to be nothing but the physical,
Incapable, yet functional. I can still make tea,
Write a letter, sing a love song or lament
But, I can neither enjoy nor despise it.
It's all just incidental; the machine keeps humming,
But there's nothing fundamental.
The boundaries have all been crossed,
Yesterday, when you just stopped,
Leaving nothing but memories
That are already half-forgotten,
And an apple on your desk
That I intend to leave until it rots.
The sun rose today; I burned my fingers with a cigarette;
Fragile things toppled, hit the ground, and shattered,
And, come tomorrow, the exact same things will happen.
The world keeps turning, as though it hasn't lost its axis,
And I still feel nothing, but the echoes of your absence.