Attention, time, poetry, affection.

Sometimes it is not about what I can give you. But what I am not. It is about absences.
When do you know that a space is empty, a feeling missing, some empty blanks on a page?

And a voice amiss in the course of a day. Blindslided by thoughts- perhaps he no longer loves me.
Perhaps. 

In the blatant absences by your side- the fact that you want me there- pegs me down to the absurd map like the red GPS peg.

A word exists and the thing ceases to. The word carries an image. As if the thing was never there. 
Signifier, signified. And the end.

Deal with it- I tell you. It’s not easy- you say.

The final signified. How do I exist in a limited sense?

Just to tell you- I exist in the gaps of your hand. 
It has to feel empty and incomplete therefore.