Absolute Proof

Someone once told me I’m too empathetic. Empathy,

like life, oozing in from all sides,

contouring the angles of my cadence,

this euphoria plunged into a type,

some tint

of enhanced serendipity.

It made us overripe and connected.

Considering how others can act as mirrors

covered with a thin matt-green clothe.

Once I turned into a real pluviophile,

obsessed with rain fall and getting the first word

slipping from buckets, pouring out the invisible light

onto the afternoon, hugging my windows

and steaming the chalked Florida pavement.

Heat too has a sense of empathy. In high school chemistry I learned

there is no cold, only the absence of heat.

This admittance of void I found touching but insincere.

There is no other it says.

There is only one contained, subtracted into oblivion.

To me, this deduction holds like fragile old newspaper,

catching, but in the end, just old news.