I wait.
One foot forward,
eyes fixed on a vanishing point
only I see.
They circle
 ask what I see.
 I do not see.
 I endure

There is a suffocating
moss between us—
some call silence,
some call stillness.
But it’s pressure
tight behind the ribs,
with no release.

I was not carved for worship,
 Not touch.
 Not warmth.
 Just
 pattern,
 posture,
 projection.

I have watched generations
 crack themselves open
 to be known.
 I remain sealed.
 Unmoved.
 But not unaware.