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.