I Forgot How to Feel Joy

I laugh
sometimes.

At jokes
I don’t get.

At things
I don’t feel.

It’s easier
than explaining.

Easier
than silence.

They say
“You’ve changed.”

I nod.
They’re right.

I just don’t
know when.

Or how.
It happened slow.

Piece
by piece.

Like color
leaving skin.

Like music
fading out.

Now
I still wake.

Still breathe.
Still speak.

But nothing
lands.

Not love.
Not joy.

It all
passes through me.

Like wind.
Like smoke.

I eat
without taste.

I walk
without purpose.

I reply
without emotion.

I smile.
Automatically.

They see it
and move on.

Because no one
questions a smile.

Not really.
Not deeply.

And I don’t
offer truth.

Not anymore.

Joy used to
visit often.

In music.
In food.

In stars.
In rain.

Now it knocks
softly.

Then leaves
when I don’t answer.

Maybe I’m numb.
Or maybe

I just forgot
how to feel joy.

And I don’t know
if I’ll remember.