Every candle in the mind unlit.
Perfect wick, unstruck match.
Nothing moves in the mind.
The brain trusts its own lacking.
Here is a body, supposedly mine,
cavernous to its core. Hear it echo,
a mumbled afterthought.
Even my heartbeats are lost
in translation, indefinitely,
forgettable nights like these,
where I wait for the words
to come undone, for tides to form,
for the train of happiness to pass,
not bothering to chase it,
not even stirring in my chair.