looking for a cleidoic thought, 
a protoplasm encased in indecision
and regret, hiding in the most obvious of places, the one 
you’ve yet to search—existing like the space between
the em-dash right above and that e,
holding nothingness next to the blackness by simply being
there, resting in an expanse so vast it could only be contained
in between your ears, fervently immobile until you try to
grasp it, stochastically fragile in its own imperfectly impervious way,
waiting for your silence, your disinterest, your obsession, your you
to simply disappear so that, in spite of you,
it will hatch to show itself to the lack of you,
the place where you