At 1am I read a poem
about a girl licking gelato
off someone's spoon.
Then one about David.
The statue.
Cracking under a pink sky.
Florence at night.
The poet is twenty-five.
I scroll back up.
Read the same line four times.
“Attention is my currency.”
I put my phone on the kitchen table.
The kettle is cold.
Has been for hours.
He has another poem about mirrors.
About becoming what people need.
About disappearing into reflections.
I understand that.
Because I have been twenty-five
and still don't know how to say
“I am cold”
without apologizing first.
Outside, Belgrade is quiet.
Somewhere in America
a guy is writing about David cracking
and wolves in forests
and gelato on spoons.
He thinks he is a monster.
He is not a monster.
He is twenty-five.
That's worse.
My neighbor upstairs
drops something heavy again.
Humanity survives loudly.
I close the phone.
The kettle is still cold.
I should probably boil it.
I should probably sleep.
I should probably stop reading
his poems at 1am.
But his voice sounds like someone
trying very carefully
not to disappear.
And I recognize that.
Because I own three blankets
for emotional emergencies
and still forget to text people back.
The kettle finally starts screaming
from the stove.
Somewhere in America
a twenty-five-year-old man
is probably apologizing
for wanting to be loved too much.
I pour the water anyway.
May 3
May 3, 2026 at 6:22 PM UTC
At 1am I read a poem
about a girl licking gelato
off someone's spoon.
Then one about David.
The statue.
Cracking under a pink sky.
Florence at night.
The poet is twenty-five.
I scroll back up.
Read the same line four times.
“Attention is my currency.”
I put my phone on the kitchen table.
The kettle is cold.
Has been for hours.
He has another poem about mirrors.
About becoming what people need.
About disappearing into reflections.
I understand that.
Because I have been twenty-five
and still don't know how to say
“I am cold”
without apologizing first.
Outside, Belgrade is quiet.
Somewhere in America
a guy is writing about David cracking
and wolves in forests
and gelato on spoons.
He thinks he is a monster.
He is not a monster.
He is twenty-five.
That's worse.
My neighbor upstairs
drops something heavy again.
Humanity survives loudly.
I close the phone.
The kettle is still cold.
I should probably boil it.
I should probably sleep.
I should probably stop reading
his poems at 1am.
But his voice sounds like someone
trying very carefully
not to disappear.
And I recognize that.
Because I own three blankets
for emotional emergencies
and still forget to text people back.
The kettle finally starts screaming
from the stove.
Somewhere in America
a twenty-five-year-old man
is probably apologizing
for wanting to be loved too much.
I pour the water anyway.
At a certain point, reading someone's poetry late at night stops feeling like "content" and starts feeling like accidentally overhearing them breathe through the wall. Strange how recognizable loneliness becomes when somebody writes it down carefully enough.
