To Serve

His girlfriend greets me with a familiar hug in the doorway; I cannot remember if we've met before. His eyes dart across the restaurant, all evening he is elsewhere but when we part ways he holds my hands a little longer than necessary. She reminds me of me, but better. It makes me happy.

There was a moment last night, when the drinks made my limbs so heavy and the pillow so soft, when the overwhelming vacuum at the core of my being reared its ugly monster of a head and with me nowhere to turn to look away. In one lapping wave, it knocked the breath right out of me and it took me so long to recover, as I tumbled down the rabbit hole into the cloying tar that resides there.

What is the point in letting myself roll through the sludge, letting my fingers get pruny with worthlessness and despair as the ghosts of days past devour the scraps of foundations I have built for myself? You look at me like the answer should be obvious, but I have no words left when I open my mouth.

It's just muted screams,
disguised as ignorant bliss.