Hope You Are Well

by Philip Nikolayev

Creatures of the pursuit of happiness
that we demonstrably are, we wish it
upon others and ourselves alike,
endlessly.

On the train, faces glow in small blue light,
each a private dusk — eyes fixed, lips tight,
thumbs scrolling through loss and chaos
no one speaks of.

That woman looks down too long,
this man’s screen reflects no one waiting.
Our silence hums in the rails, fatigue
gathering like mist.

“Hope you are well,” I type phonily
into the phone, or, “I hope all is well
with you,” knowing too well there isn’t
any such hope.