I live in a state of torpor.
Unlike the bear, sleep does not come.
Restless head lies on the pillow,
languishing as the hotel speaks.

The morning alarm cuts through fog.
Only dark greets my weary eyes,
and I lose track of everything
because everything means nothing.

Listlessly, I drag my way through
counting all the days until you.
A distant and abstract future,
in the recesses of my mind.

There’s warmth to the repetition,
and I faintly caution myself
this is a trap meant to keep me
shackled to the machine, not flesh.

Photo by Suhas Hanjar on Unsplash

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