There are two types of emptiness: 
 the spaces between, and 
 the space after -- 
 and like all space, each 
 lies beyond all human comprehension. 

We gave our all, but 
 that wasn't good enough; 
 we poured love in, but 
 cannot determine where it went, or 
 to what purpose. 

Space is neither everywhere unchanging, 
 nor merely curved to conform to bodies then present; 
 it is a river, a stream, 
 flowing over hopes, and through dreams, 
 and into kitchens once alive with nascent joy, 
 joy choked by the limits of each seed, 
 planted in unfamiliar ground, and 
 reaching towards a sun blocked by walls. 

We cannot know when after is merely between, 
 we only know 

 the emptiness