It is a hard emptiness.
A field of white bone but without brightness.
A flatness that is forever
Not even held by the sky.

I have been wandering the wastes for 3 years
Keeping journals of poetry
And receipts from our grocery store
Tucked into my shoes to keep my feet warm
I can feel you following my trail of paper
And though I won’t look back
I hope you admire my stride.

There is a certain silence echoing around here,
Unclear whether it wants to deafen or blanket in still.
The closest sound to a city in the morning
Heard from far away booming up the valley.
But this has more screaming on the wind.

It is dry and cold and bleak and I know I cannot afford to lose any of my warm tears
But my eyes and my throat ache for it and the cracked ground aches for it
And the bones ache for its wet softness to caress their curves.

This is a mind losing place
And a finding place
And there is so little else to do here.
Write.
Breathe.
Feel my blood.

I scream, and scream, and scream into the air
And sometimes it screams back
And other times swallows it
Like it’s being fed.
And with enough screams a cloud will form
Feeding on invisible black until it is heavy.

The rainstorms bring peace.
The only touch I feel anymore.
I like to shake the water from my hair like a dog
And howl at the memory of gulls.
I have been a dog
And who’s to say otherwise here?
I feel a dog and I know what sort of dog I would be
And so I have been a dog.

I like to sit cross legged and breath slowly
Right where I imagine the center of this waste to be.
A small pile of bones insignificant in a field of them,
Comical in my movements like a puppet.

I like to imagine your face
Taking in the vastness of the wastes.
Would your eyes shine or dim?
I would be so nervous letting you in.
And I don’t know if you’d want us to go
Or if you’d be happier to stay.