A depression is a dent. Just some place where the material supporting the surface has weakened or given way, or where external forces have crushed the surface in one place. Now what I have, what I have is a cavity. I have perfect hollowness, I have what you get when you scoop out a Halloween pumpkin to carve it up. I have ragged, vulnerable nerve endings trailing into a dark and empty space, repeatedly relaying the message that nothing's there.
I get aches, still, when I hear some songs, when it warms up and the sun shines silver. I get excited thinking about a new home in a different part of the world and then remember I have nothing to get excited about. I'll never know whether I've gotten closer to you or farther away. Even if I knew it was the former (and didn't just suspect), you're not there anymore. You're gone, it's my fault, and goddamn me I keep forgetting.
It's not different, though. Not really different. Still, you're the only thing I care about. Don't argue with me and don't tell me what I think. You're the only thing I care about. You always were. But you always left that cavity. It's just now I can't throw some leaves over it and call it a depression.
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