Some days
I feel like a man
whose train has already left,
while another hasn't arrived.
The station is full of people,
but somehow
I'm the only one
without a destination.
The phone stays quiet.
The silence know my name better
than my friends do.
Even the next hit
seems tired of pretending
it can save anybody.
Transition is a cruel landlord.
It tears your old address
off the mailbox
before handing you the key
to the next place.
So you sit.
You become familiar
with the quiet.
You learn that loneliness
isn't the absence of people.
It's the long hallway
between the life that died
and the one
still learning your name.
Maybe that's all becoming is.
Not fireworks.
Not revelation.
Just another stubborn sunrise
finding a man
who almost gave up on tomorrow.
Still standing there.
Hands shoved deep into empty pockets.
Watching the horizon
like it owes him
one honest answer.