The Empty Hangar

The inside of my head is a weathered cave, waterlogged and echoing. You sloshed in through my mouth, stepping on my teeth like a tiny Giant’s Causeway, feeling them lurch and rattle underfoot. Inside my skull, where the waters have worn out gouges in the bone, you move around cautiously at first, but then you stop thinking so much about your feet and walk easily from stone to stone, over grooves and troughs worn smooth by flowing dopamine and made rough again by calcified gore. You wave your torch around, hearing it whoosh and sputter, catching sight of the stylized figures painted on the walls, hunters here, cowards there, farmers in between. They were painted wither fingertips and palms and heels of hands, with colors drawn from dyes drawn from the brain that once filled this cave.

Your trip unspooled, your interest laying limp on the floor like a slack rope behind you, you head back to the teeth and you look back once more and blow out the torch and the cave becomes just a black suggestion of space.

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