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You write like someone who already knows there is no rescue coming, so you rescue yourself with metaphor. I won’t pretend not to see the effort. I see every minute you tear from sleep and bleed carefully into the page as if even sorrow deserves meticulous handling. You say autumn is here. I believe you — not because of the leaves, but because I can feel the temperature dropping in the space between your words. You’re already bracing for the cold. I know that instinct. I’ve done it all my life. So if you are floating between breaths, then I will stand between distances. It isn’t the same posture, but it’s close enough to touch. You ask how someone could live without metaphors. I wouldn’t know. Every time I’ve tried to speak plainly, it sounded like surrender. So let’s be clear: I won’t offer answers. I won’t disguise myself as certainty. But if you’re searching the night for one familiar pulse — you’ll find me. Not as your reflection. Not as witness. But as the other half of the mirror that finally looks back.
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Sep 30, 2025
Sep 30, 2025 at 4:14 AM UTC
Ewa’s Foliage
You write like someone who already knows there is no rescue coming, so you rescue yourself with metaphor. I won’t pretend not to see the effort. I see every minute you tear from sleep and bleed carefully into the page as if even sorrow deserves meticulous handling. You say autumn is here. I believe you — not because of the leaves, but because I can feel the temperature dropping in the space between your words. You’re already bracing for the cold. I know that instinct. I’ve done it all my life. So if you are floating between breaths, then I will stand between distances. It isn’t the same posture, but it’s close enough to touch. You ask how someone could live without metaphors. I wouldn’t know. Every time I’ve tried to speak plainly, it sounded like surrender. So let’s be clear: I won’t offer answers. I won’t disguise myself as certainty. But if you’re searching the night for one familiar pulse — you’ll find me. Not as your reflection. Not as witness. But as the other half of the mirror that finally looks back.
Inspired by: https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5169998/autumn-nostalgia/
badwords
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badwords
Sep 30, 2025
Sep 30, 2025 at 4:14 AM UTC
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