This is not another cliche poem
about how the women I loved and perhaps still love
took a piece of my heart and left me.
This is the reality of trying to replace it,
trying to figure out
if she temporarily replaced the hole
that was already there.
This is the story of how I learned
that some people are born with empty spaces,
or live with the hollowness only a dead lover
This is the acknowledgement and accepting
of the nothingness,
because fullness is perfect
and perfect is boring.
This is how I plan to spend the rest of my life:
befriending my nothing and occasionally visiting
my nothing with one night stands and cigarette smoke