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