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.

It hurts, It hurts
the human error
of miscommunication

Our words, Our words
are prone to inaccuracy
for they are mere abstraction
of thoughts beyond our translation


It's worse, It's worse
the human aversion
to critical observation

My words, My words
are prone to inadequacy
when it is the preference of accusation
to stifle my explanation


It heals, It heals
the human compassion
of constructive suggestion

Your words, Your words
are full of advocacy
as they favor the progression
of our iterative expression


At last, At last
the human remedy
to careless assumption

The truth, The truth
shall reveal with certainty,
once we overcome circumvention,
what was, indeed, my true intention.

Peace is elusive.
Those in power can't agree.
We the people weep.