I once stood, roof-bound,
nothing but a t-shirt,
muttering to myself,
sinking into thought.
A gentle, warm touch—
a hand on my arm—
and my thoughts drown
beneath the sound of my own voice.
We talk.
I speak exactly what’s on my mind,
problems truly unsolved,
yet somehow,
you always steal the answer—
pulling it from the part of me
too afraid to say it out loud.
You mastered comfort
in your presence alone.
As we speak into the hours of the night,
the sun rises—
we are still held hostage by our words.
I grab a seat.
You rest in it.
And every problem dissolves
through the greatness of the solutions you bring.
And as the sun begins to settle,
you say:
"You need to let go.
Holding on never does much good."
My response is clear as day:
"If holding on to you does more harm than good,
then I'll sit a victim through the world of hurt."
You don’t reply.
Instead, you mutter—
"I love the sunset.
A reminder that everything leaves,
and will start anew.
Even I will leave,
no matter how you hold on."
I turn away from the sun.
I look at you.
And only then do I realize—
You never stole the words from my mind.
You never solved any of my problems.
You were never there.
