other space

Out and about under heavy autumn skies with the sunset
burning in on the insides of my eyes, and an ice cream
clutched, frozen in a gloved hand,
I walk, shoe-booted, mind on anything
but the empty space beside me,
how my other hand holds
nothing.

At night I lie on new sheets with
the smell of him on my neck and the glow in the dark stars
blazing down on my singular form, curled
around a book
and I ignore, desperately,
the small but significant space
beside me,
my cold feet,
the emptiness.

I laugh with friends, dance like my feet
are full of electricity, blaze across parties
with a devil-may-care attitude, endearing, devlish, daring,
to stop thoughts of
other things,
like drowning myself in the bathtub
which is now mostly full of vodka.
And I don't look at the seats next to me that are
holes in space, or the place where
my arm would have rested.

I ignore the part of me that feels like it's been axed brutally away
in a bad teen horror gore-fest,
and I continue.

I continue.
Because I know that hole will close up, that the space
will be replaced with something else, something better,
that this sudden difference is not so much awful as strange,
something to get used to like a new pair of heels.

The space is black, the hole is dark, and the emptiness
is enormous and petrifying.

But I know whats on the other side.