Empty: A poem

Photo of a bed
Brad Kozlek/Creative Commons

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I sit in the room full of


things that remind me of something


This something I do do not not know, though.

Tears rain as they tear

my eyes raw

but the ground is still not damp outside.

It’s as dry as the door

in front of me.

Hinges sore

from holding

closed so long.

I stay here.

The door doesn’t

open, even as

my hands 

grasp the metal,

cold, then warm

from my denting,

Making space for more


I step back.

I recede back

in. Away from the door.

I remember when we

could go outside,

but I still didn’t then.

It’s easier here.

But why do I still think of this


Outside is distanced

by my mind. It’s hard 

to think of outside

where things are.

I can experience,

but will I feel?

I feel the covers

of the unmade bed

in my mind as I

fortify the pillow 

over my face

to block the sun

coming through

the window.

It’s dark now,

my lungs can’t


through this 


thick as walls.


Contact Daniel Orona at [email protected].