You. You scoop me out

each time we touch

or — no, it’s our not-touching

that leaves me hollow —

soon I will be nothing

and glad of it. Better

to be nothing made

by the absence of your hands

than to live unmade.

Better to become

a shell containing

the sea’s unceasing cry

than never to taste salt at all.

The husk that once was me

fills with the whisper of you:

Are you warm enough?

Should I leave the light on?

Do you still want this?

Yes, the echo is my answer,

my answer an echo of yes.

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