Almost By Alex Scovron

There is a quiet substance to things -
the way the world fits together in spite of itself;
You feel it when driving encapsuled in the rain,
slipping into a silent hospital at night,
or scanning half familiar faces on the screen
That almost return your strange satellite gaze.

There is a substance also to emptiness,
But it can never truly be exchanged with another;
Like an absence,
or the impulse to despair
At the hole in the universe your substance almost fills.