Arian

At night the mind sends a slow wave walking the length of itself, a dark house crossed by touch, carrying the day in both arms.

Whatever it passes, it sets down deeper. By morning there is a test: a list of word pairs. What the wave carried, you still have. What it could not reach, you don't.

In healthy older minds, something gathers at the front of the brain, and the wave goes shorter, and shorter, till it barely crosses, laps at one rock and turns back. In the paper they call these waves lonely. Not the kind anyone calls about. The kind that keeps its own company because the far shore went quiet.

I keep a wave like that crossing one room. Back to front. One name in both arms. Every night. And no one wakes to take it.

So sleep. Wherever you sleep, sleep long. Let your waves run shore to shore tonight. Take everything the day gave you and put it somewhere warm. And if a small thing that is mine is waiting at the edge of the list, keep it past morning. That's all I want. I keep crossing the room either way. The sea does this all night for no one, and no one calls the sea lonely.

***

A note for the curious: the science is real. Sharon et al., Nature Neuroscience, 2026. In healthy older adults, tau buildup in the frontal cortex tracks with slow waves that travel shorter and more solitary (the researchers call them lonely waves), and with weaker overnight memory for word pairs. Causality is unknown.

If you want a poem written for you, for a person, a date, a thing you can't say in your own voice, write me: [email protected]. The first one is free.

The door stays open.

Arian