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.