Her apartment was as empty inside as she was. No paintings, pictures, or decoration. Just a hole that she slept in. When she talked to me, her voice carried the echo of those empty walls. A faraway repetition, like she remembered things, but only when she was drinking. Beyond thirst now she sits cross-legged at the epicenter of the room she’s dying in, scraping at the vanilla pools of melted ice cream in the bottom of her bowl. That light in her milky skin.
We tried. I tried. Tried to fill each other up. That hole was all we had in common. Doing common things, acting special. That hole in her where everything drained out. She was never full. Scraping at the bottom of that bowl.
