It’s a cliché to title a poem UNTITLED, but

I sit
depleted, utterly.

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.

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