Empty

My bed is empty.

My room is cold.

The sheets are rumpled and dirty.

I pull them up and straighten them.

Slow.

Meticulous.

Order is essential.

Ignore the chill.

The room is in disarray.

Pick up the pieces.

Everything in its place.

I dress in habitual silence.

There is no rush.

There are no tears.

I will leave dramatics to Cleopatra, Juliet, and Psyche.

I am made of ice, of stone.

I am impeccable and precise.

Like a machine.

I, too, can feel nothing.

Words in the night will not change me.

Will not make me weak.

I push back my curtains, to let in the light.

The morning fills my room.

But I am empty.

******************************************

REVIEWS fill my soul with light...