Unfinished

First silence.
It grows louder and louder.
Until it becomes almost deafening.
You hold on to the paper in your hand as if it's the only evidence your anchored here.
Your mind jumps to the strangest things at first.
Run.
No.
Stay put.
Wait a minute, just wait a minute.
Then.
What do I do with this?
Put it in the desk drawer, with the rest?
What will I do with all those notices once I sale the desk?
Then it hits. Clearly.
And your legs feel useless beneath you.
You grasp at your middle as if to hold yourself together.
It feels hollow, weak.
Sounds come back.
Their your sounds, only they sound as though they are far off.
Gasping and heaving.
You feel your middle.
Hold tightly to prevent the buckling.
You want to scream, break things, throw something.
But the air has been sucked out of the room.
And if you don't hold tight to your middle you'll certainly come apart.
You think of the last time you saw them.
You think how even now it seems shadowy in your mind.
You think of how their place will be so empty.