Night falls without word
Of man nor word from thee
To me,
We have differing views
On contact you and I,
Contact between partners,
Contact between friends,

Conversation about what passes
Betwixt each of us
And any other,
Although you're prompt
To interrogate about clients
Which I understand given
Our past,

But as partners we have
Yet to settle on a path that
Permits us easy conversation
On anything and anyone,
And that loving trust
To which I for one do yet aspire
And we for two do need,

But we shall get there because
I shall not balk at the
Difficult subjects,
Nor turn away lest your
Rage arise again for
If it does then it must and
Its every demise will draw us

Closer

Act I: The Universe Breathes, and I Am an Afterthought

I arrived late to existence,
billions of years after the stars had their golden age.
Missed the Big Bang,
missed the Renaissance,
missed the time when love letters were written on paper,
instead of reducing feelings to keystrokes.

They handed me a body,
a mind that questions too much,
and a world obsessed with carving meaning out of chaos—
as if Sisyphus hadn’t already proven
we’re all just rolling boulders uphill,
pretending not to notice the futility.

Act II: The Weight of Knowing, the Lightness of Forgetting

Socrates said, “The only thing I know is that I know nothing.”
I read that at 3 a.m. and felt personally attacked.
Descartes told me, “I think, therefore I am,”
but some days, I think too much and forget how to be.

History is a carousel of déjà vu,
spinning the same tragedies on repeat.
Empires fall, currencies crash,
trends resurrect themselves like poorly buried ghosts.
The Greeks feared hubris,
the Romans feared the barbarians,
I fear how meaning crumbles when no one is left to remember.

Act III: Beyond Meaning, Beyond Regret

Maybe Dante was right—
hell isn’t fire, it’s bureaucracy.
Maybe we’re just modern Stoics in overpriced hoodies,
romanticizing the art of being okay with things we can’t change.

Maybe meaning isn’t found in grand gestures,
but in the quiet absurdity of it all—
in watching the sun rise like it’s not exhausted,
in laughing at a joke older than Shakespeare,
in knowing that despite wars, collapses, heartbreaks, and lost civilizations—
someone, somewhere, still bakes bread from scratch,
still hums a song they don’t remember the name of,
still chooses to keep going.

Final Scene: To Exist Is to Hesitate, and Yet—

Nietzsche said, “He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.”
I’m still figuring out my why.
But in the meantime,
I’ll sip my coffee, watch the world spin,
and pretend I was always meant to be here.

i build walls,
thick and tall,
afraid of what might slip through,
afraid of what i might feel.

he touches the bricks,
his fingers gentle,
but i flinch,
afraid of the weight of love,
the pressure of it all.

i want to let him in,
but fear wraps its arms around me,
its grip so tight i can’t breathe.
how can i ask for something
i don’t know how to give?

still, i whisper the truth,
just a crack in the wall,
hoping he’ll hear me,
hoping he’ll understand
that i’m trying,
even when i can’t be all of me.

You who hold the light
in the soft sigh of twilight
where shadows whisper secrets
and the world bends
like a delicate petal,
i find you—
a fleeting thought,
a spark of laughter
dancing on the edge of silence.

maybe the dead
stick to us,
like stars caught in the fabric
of our skin,
weighing heavily
yet beautifully,
a tapestry of what was,
embroidered with longing.

pinch me before I wake,
like an egg yolk I gasp,
swallowed whole by this moment,
the sweet ache of remembering.
lay me down
in the unkempt grass,
where wildflowers
stretch their arms
to the sky,
and the earth
breathes
in colors of dusk—
let us lose ourselves
in this gentle chaos,
where time is a wound
that heals,
and love
is the only truth.

you—
the one who catches
the dark,
who holds the light
in trembling hands,
remind me
that even in silence,
i am not alone,
that in the weight of shadows,
we are still
a little bit
alive.