Lacuna

i.
I remember September. 
I remember how my voice faltered. 
By January it died. 
I keep throwing things out: 
Packing them, sending them away. 
Out of my sight forever. 

ii.
I wandered and returned to an empty house.
In my short absence,
the walls began to grow hands 
constantly reaching out, 
trying to absorb my life essence. 

iii.
What is t-o-u-c-h-i-n-g? 
I don’t know this word. 
Does it have a meaning? 
Is that what the walls are trying to do? 

iv.
I killed.
Evidence: Blackened hands.
Another evidence: A defeated journal lying on death’s doorstep.

v.
I see an empty room.
I see a deep cavity where my heart was.

vi.
I can’t.

COPYRIGHT © LYDIANE AGUSTINUS 2012