She is full even when she is empty;
she is empty even when she is full.
She is the Cheshire Cat’s grin
hanging one hundred
and eighty degrees askew.
She knew me
before I did, before anyone else did, either.
She knew me long before
I was a glint in my mother’s eye,
before the atoms I am made from
came together in some heavenly union
in a belly - furnace -
and they named it “me”. She
loved me when I was nothing more
than ash pretending to be stardust.
She makes me wish I was in love with someone.
Or that someone was in love with me: she
is the invisible pair of eyes
that show me what he looks like asleep
when I dream, because the same eyes
that watch me watch him too. You
have no idea what kind of gaze she is blessing you with. She is the one
who tells him to come to me in the early
hours, when only the street lights are awake,
and crawl into bed beside me;
the softest thing I’ll never hold
and we would move like two oceans in our sleep;
two bodies that may never be destined to meet.
Which is to say
we come closer and closer anyway,
until we do collide gently together,
because that’s just how
the earth moves.
People have always said she has magic powers.
They would bathe under her, naked,
arms spread, begging for a second.
I think they’re probably right.
She is the lamplight on a starless night
when she is anything but new,
always piercing the clouds
if just for a second.
She hangs, gravity the only force that moves her body
and love the only thing that stirs her soul.
She is full even when she is empty.
She still watches even when we
cannot see her face.
She is the softest thing you’ll never touch,
like individual atoms, or blue sky, or stardust.
She’s kind of like me, I guess:
empty even when she’s full.
—  The Softest Thing You’ll Never Touch