I have a book about half finished waiting for eyes to read it.
And there's someone I should be getting back to
But that'll wait.
It will have to.
I have nothing to do.
An impressive and awe inspiring amount of nothing to do.
The nothing is coming out of my pores and soaking me down to the fingertips.
Little rivulets of nothing go coursing over the down on my arms.
And travelling from my scalp to the hollow between my shoulder blades.
Expanding puddles of nothing soaking my socks and this patch of carpet.
And it's all mine This growing flood.
Mine to dance in... to move in.
And when the waters reach my swaying hips I will lay back
Breathe deep, find a level in the deluge
Bathe and float in my own aching hollow
My own special empty
My very own nothing.