Every room’s empty now.
All the furniture’s gone.
All of our stuff is out of here.
Nothing in any room.
You smirk and say, well, they’re full of air.
That’s cheating, I say.
We don’t think of air as a filler.
You don’t get a pass for that.
You say, you should try and think that way.
If a boat sinks, it’s full of water.
We pump a raft full of air so it will hold us.
Why aren’t these rooms full, then?
Because, I say, air isn’t like that.
You say, this is a glass half empty, half full thing, isn’t it?
You always were a pessimist.
I say, No wonder we didn’t — and then cut myself off.
Screw it, I say. Not worth it.
Can we at least agree that there’s nothing left here for us to move?
But you’re already almost out the door.