12th in Emptiness, Oblivion, and the Breeze That Knows Too Much

April 12th rises
like a hollow bowl.
A day carved out of absence,
light as a rib,
quiet as a room
after everyone has left
but the air still remembers
their names.

This is the day of emptiness
not the cruel kind,
not the collapsing void,
but the soft, spacious emptiness
that follows understanding.
The kind that lets the mind
finally exhale.

Oblivion drifts close,
not as an ending
but as a companion.
A gentle eraser,
a slow dissolver of edges,
a reminder that forgetting
can sometimes be
a form of mercy.

And then comes the breeze
thin, wandering,
a whispering thread of air
that slips through the ears
of the innocents
like a secret too light
to be dangerous.

It carries stories
from an exodus affair
not a flight from danger,
but a quiet leaving,
a stepping away
from what once held us
too tightly.

The breeze tells them
in its soft, unpunctuated voice:
that departures are not betrayals,
that emptiness is not failure,
that oblivion is not punishment.

It brushes the cheeks
of those who still believe
in the safety of beginnings,
and it murmurs:
You will lose things.
You will lose people.
You will lose versions of yourself
you once swore were permanent.

But the breeze also says
so gently it almost isn’t heard
You will survive the losing.

April 12th is a threshold day,
a day that teaches
without insisting,
a day that empties
so something else
can one day fill.

It ends with a hush,
a soft settling of dust,
a breeze that lingers
just long enough
to remind the innocents
that even in exodus,
even in oblivion,
even in the hollow spaces
there is still
a direction
for the soul to move.