I am perforated by the night that keeps me awake.
Through the balcony the moonlight pierces
and the ivory curtains oscillate
along with the wind that the atmosphere releases.
Behind insipid walls that’re opaque
creeps in the lethargic smell of cigarette smoke.
It might be my father,
exhaling his headache
and the burdens of the world.
So I have this question that I can’t seem to shake:
Is he staring at the void, hearing unheard words?
or at the mirror that stares back
thinking of June and July and the days that his cigarettes continuously
burn?
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