one bed: empty
sheets folded over the mass of pillows, still.
with too many remnants.
one house, one person — one hollow silence.
my little sister sings along to songs
in our deserted kitchen.
what’s the word for missing something
before it’s gone?
beads of rain batter themselves
against the window glass.
in tiny reflections of silver globes,
i see an infinity of worlds.
drops inside my pupils inside a drop
of rain. they are as black as a funeral trenchcoat.
grief does not feel like sadness.
instead, a black hole swallows
and collapses everything
into the grave
of a star.
it is everything and nothing
existing in the same impossible core,
stinging like a stone, and bitter. velvet
and oil pool down the walls
of your throat.
grief is the absolute presence of nothing
in a space
Amelia Glass is seventeen years old and wishes she wasn’t. She loves plants, her two sisters, and the cool mist after it rains. She is currently a junior at Lone Peak High School. thinking on the meaning of the word ‘gone’ is her first published piece.