He walks like rain belongs to him,
like the clouds know his first name.
Every streetlight flickers twice
when he passes underneath.
A man of bad luck
keeps old receipts in his pockets,
not for money owed,
but for memories that never stayed.
He has loved people
who only visited his heart
like strangers stopping for shelter
during a storm.
The bus leaves when he arrives.
The calls come when he’s asleep.
His flowers die too early,
his good days never stay long enough
to learn their own names.
Still
he wakes up.
Still
he irons tomorrow into his shirt
and walks into the world
like hope has never betrayed him before.
Because maybe bad luck
is not the tragedy.
Maybe the tragedy
is how a gentle man
can survive so much disappointment
and still speak softly
to the world that keeps breaking him.
7d ago
May 29, 2026 at 5:49 PM UTC
He walks like rain belongs to him,
like the clouds know his first name.
Every streetlight flickers twice
when he passes underneath.
A man of bad luck
keeps old receipts in his pockets,
not for money owed,
but for memories that never stayed.
He has loved people
who only visited his heart
like strangers stopping for shelter
during a storm.
The bus leaves when he arrives.
The calls come when he’s asleep.
His flowers die too early,
his good days never stay long enough
to learn their own names.
Still
he wakes up.
Still
he irons tomorrow into his shirt
and walks into the world
like hope has never betrayed him before.
Because maybe bad luck
is not the tragedy.
Maybe the tragedy
is how a gentle man
can survive so much disappointment
and still speak softly
to the world that keeps breaking him.
