There’s a name
on the tip of my tongue
and it’s just out of reach
from sound. Never fully formed
and it’s been there from my first breath, 
at the very least from my youngest memory
I hear the sound of sobs.
A childhood self, such a small adult wailing
into a pillow. Something blocked at the throat–
I could never name it
I can’t name it now
this emptiness that is always there
this alcove in my chest
it was always there
if it existed before you
and it exists after you,
what’s the point?
It’s just the same. 
It’s all the same.
How can I say I loved?
Or was loved?
Or was in love?
Nothing more than a placeholder–
gauze packed into the wound
of a deficient vessel,
but you were never part of that vessel, 
just an anodyne.
I’ll never find that which was once there.
I’ve never known it.