#35 - The Best Nothing Ever

We rifled through our pockets for stuff
we wouldn't miss
to toss into the void.

Tilly threw a Costa till receipt
wrapped round a 2p piece for heft.

When it hit the purling vortex
it went off like a flashbang;

we were left staring at a photo negative
of her outstretched arm
for minutes, giggling
at our newfound blindness
and that lingering instant.

Leonard threw on a conker
that evaporated in a tickle of larksong;
Uncle Craig flung in his trilby

then realised too late
his cashcard was tucked inside.
'Oh fuck!' he cried,
watching it buckle in on itself like a souffle
before sloughing apart.

Something in that moment caught me.

I was unzipping my flies;
my trousers hit the void and smashed
into a hundred and fifty creamy moths;
Tilly's bra detonated like the far-off
crump of ordnance;
eye-glasses
turned the air thick with incense;
we threw everything

into that sucking mouth

so black it shone,
so deep
it filled us.