Faking

Existence lately has been a Brownian ratchet,
perpetually spinning loneliness into laughter.
Emmy says I must be perfectly symmetrical,
or else I’d lose conservation of mass,
and then, God forbid, I’d actually feel light.
So the mass profile of my heart stays cored
as clustered grins revolve at ludicrous speeds.
So buoyancy continues to float me upward,
betraying the lacking density of my subconscious.
So your waves must continue to bend around me,
even when I cease to interact,
even when I fade completely into myself.