Glittery sparks and reflections pulse through the hollow muscle in repeated, rhythmic contractions. This kapŏlă is life. Its hurting hurls a numbness into the tunnels it’s meant to keep alive. Spaces have been emptied and replaced in ways that aren’t so different from what they looked like before.

I am not sore.

I just feel like that last meal is coming back to the fore.

Light dances off the phosphorous because of those moving ships in the night while their enigmas hang back in the darkness below their hulls. Hollow is the answer for how we handle when the harmony isn’t home. The lights are on but the soul is gone.

I am not sore.

I just feel like spite is something I never really understood before.

My head bursts into the space above the surface and I feel oxygen make a comeback. It’s a pretty important substance – for the atmosphere and I. I used to be in love with love, with the hurt that went with the end of it and the romantic dramas that abound in the rebound.

And now?

I’m not so sure.

But I’m not sore.

I just feel like you should go talk to your friends… talk to my friends… talk to me… but we are… well you know how that ends.

© Dylan Balkind

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