Introverts’ after party

There’s a pleasant silence between us when the house empties. We clear the messy table, plate after plate, we wash away food marks and wine stains, with them fade the memory of soft chatter and laughs, of stories and anecdotes from the evening.

As we go to the garden for a last round of cleaning, the night welcomes us with its shielding darkness, we share a cigarette to conclude the evening.

I heard somewhere that in Tibetan and other eastern languages, the word solitude is a synonym for being empty of something.

At that moment we’re both empty. Empty of longing, empty of missing out, empty of words, empty of worries. So empty and yet this emptiness is as full as it gets. Your solitude salutes mine.

“…the love that consists in this: that two solitudes protect and border and salute each other.”

Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet (1904)

Post art: gouache paper, dishes in the sink (work in progress).