True blankness
isn't white, like a glass
of cold milk is;
it hits not a bit
like snow, bleached
paper, or crisp sheets. No,
the blankness
which crouches
inside of you now
isn't even part
of your bodily
experience.
And in truth,
it's so good,
so pure, and so right
that it's not even
like light,
so much as
Einstein's densest,
most compressed equation
which describes it—or
maybe, it's more like
the time
that a cloud takes
to rain itself cleanly right
out of existence.
The point is—
what you're feeling
is not even a feeling;
it's
the experience
of whichever feeling
you'd expected
slowly dissipating—
as you come, with neither
malice or elation,
to know: it was doing
absolutely
nothing for you.
