Nothingness Became a Foregone Conclusion

I think about love quite often, 

but right now, said thoughts are

more empty than sincere,

like a bus that goes from stop to stop

collecting more urban grime than passengers.

My body longs for that touch,

that otherworldly connection.

My soul writhes underneath my skin and bones;

shaking, trembling like a junky,

or like an alcoholic three days into sobriety.

Love is a visceral feeling

that can be confused with

lust and/or wanting

of the most baser instincts:

poets write free-verses about it;

broken-hearted singers sing about it;

painters have painted abstract representations of it;

average people with no artistic inclinations

have been driven to commit murder over it

(wanting to be the first and the last.)

I stare at my phone,

I pick it up,

I look to see if anybody has called…

nothing.

I go through my contacts list

and I stop at a number;

a shred of pride is the sole thing

that keeps my trembling left hand

from hitting the green “call” button.

Existential crisis averted… or prolonged.

She was never mine to begin with,

but her sweet nature (and similar tastes)

made me want her more.

The way she said “hello”-

in her uniquely dulcet toned voice-

was sweeter than the average singer

of an indie synthpop band.

(In my imagination, 

she either played a Casio keytar,

or a Theremin.)

Then, without warning,

the drifting began.

Maybe we were star-crossed,

doomed from the start.

Maybe we were never anything to begin with.

As I drifted further and further

from her consciousness,

my voice became an echo

and my body became a blur.

Nothingness became a foregone conclusion.

©2011 José-Ariel Cuevas