3 am. I walk the streets around my home, the air is cool but laden with moisture. It feels good, and I am surprised by it, surprised that my body can feel anything when I am so numb. Boxes line the streets, slumbering men, women and children lying within, dreaming their dreams, strangely detached from the world. The sound of a million crickets comes from seemingly everywhere, the high hum of electric lights pierces the swarm, and the low rumble of a distant train faintly yet strongly grounds my symphony of solitude. A car passes, then after a while another - other lonely souls in the night. I wonder if they have destinations, or are, like me, wandering without aim.
The woman who has become the center of my life finds me merely an annoyance, something I've known but would not admit to myself for quite some time. Now it cannot be denied, nor ignored, nor rationalized away as the paranoia of self-doubt. But it took nothing less than the very words from her lips, for I will always see what I desperately need to see, even if it takes all of my imagination to make it real. The void cannot be filled, this vacuum abhors nature, and though it is nothing, it feels like the weight of the whole world, and I think that I shall be carrying it for a long time. Maybe until I can carry no more.
On the other side of the world, a butterfly flaps her wings. And from that tiny current a maelstrom has swallowed my heart.