I wait for sorrow to strike,
But the blade is made of snow,
Melting before it cuts.
Laughter brushes past me,
A bird whose wings
Never land in my hands.
The days arrive in perfect silence
Neither gift nor burden,
Just repetitions of air.
I do not hurt,
And that is its own wound.
I do not weep,
And that is its own grief.
Numbness is not peace
But a mirror with no reflection,
A winter that refuses to thaw.
And still, I walk through it
A ghost in the machine,
Aching not for pain,
But for the proof of being pierced