Negative Four Hundred and Fifty-Nine Degrees Fahrenheit.

because, y'know, nothing can really mean everything.
you say there's nothing on that desk.

perhaps a stray scrap of paper,
maybe a thin piece of pencil lead,
or even an eraser shaving.
but nothing, essentially.

nothing is always everything.

that stray scrap of paper was from a larger piece of paper,
perhaps a piece of a love letter.
and that epitomal heartache one must always feel.
a teacher with their own story.
you got your paper from the store.
and the store got it from a processing plant,
and the processing plant got it from good ol' nature.
and a single molecule of carbon dioxide being absorbed by that tree.
and 7 billion others breathing that single molecule.
and nothing comes back to everything.

that extraneous piece of lead.
maybe that mechanical pencil was clicked with vehement intensity one too many times.
struggling to put down those three oh so complex words,
'I love you'.
and the last time you saw this heartthrob they turned away snobbishly,
the first time they turned in the same fashion,
and nothing has changed but you still feel the same.
and oh how it hurts.
every twinge of pain,
every needle of suffering,
every. single. twisted. word.
carving caverns into your brain,
oversimplifying the simple,
and nothing comes back to everything.

even those eraser shavings.
puny elongated strips of rubber.
rubbing away any pain,
any harm,
any hope.
and we say bye bye to those three words,
because you're a teenager.
you don't know what love is.
you probably can't even define it.
you're ridiculous.
you know it too.
you're wrong.
and those eraser shavings just prove it.
prove how reasonable you are.
prove that you know what is best.
and nothing comes back everything.

because nothing means everything.
I know what everything is.
I know what nothing is.
and I know how to differentiate the two.

so now you know to trust me when I say I feel absolutely nothing for you.