Familiar Weight

 I am a shell, a quiet storyteller.
When I fall silent, I feel half here,
like someone passing through their own life.

My spirit doesn’t scream,
it leaks slowly,
in tears that learned how not to fall.

They say they miss me.
I believe them.
Still, distance feels like a softer way to breathe.

I went too deep into reality,
thinking I could understand it.
It answered by pressing back,
until I mistook pressure for purpose.

Now time watches me closely.
I count it without meaning to.
My memories don’t visit 
they settle in,
they sit beside me
and refuse to leave.

They hold me still,
not with fear,
but with familiarity.

I am the one who laughs at the wrong moment,
who turns sadness into small jokes,
as if humor could translate
what I don’t know how to say.

I look for a place where I can rest
without explaining myself.
I avoid bright places
that ask too many questions.

I don’t want to disappear.
I just want the noise to lower,
the thoughts to loosen their grip,
and the world
to touch me
with less weight.