handfuls of air

I want you to believe that I am here,

but if you look for me, you’ll see

there’s nothing solid,

only gaseous thoughts

or flimsy feelings

or a vague sensation

like a hollow sphere behind the eyes,

not even a sphere, the mere idea,

a bubble that pops the moment it’s seen,

thoughts about thoughts about thoughts.

Perhaps I am only the stickiest thought.

In confusion, the question is asked:

Is anyone there? Only echoes respond.

So why do you believe in me?

Am I in these words? Was I

before these words or after?

Am I in the awareness of words,

or the thought of the awareness of words?

It’s turtles all the way down, a deep

ocean of thought, but harmless,

impossible to drown. Just breathe.

Stop thinking of me, and I become air.

I never was there.