Can you shutthefuckup no.,

May you askith unto thyself,

a quiet query in the hollow

of a late afternoon,

when the sun slants low

and shadows stretch like doubts.

Barricades of growth,

are they built of stone or fear?

A fortress against the soft entry

of new understanding,

or just the hardened shell

of yesterday's defense?

Animosity,

a sharp taste on the tongue,

a memory that refuses to dissolve.

Possibly not vengeance, no,

not the turning of a tide for payback,

but the residue of friction,

the tiny sharp edges left

by a world that did not bend right.

Possibly not, you whisper,

to the mirror's cool reflection.

A lightness you seek, perhaps,

or just the absence of the weight

that settles in the shoulders.

Does this include possible not, too,

in the counting of the cost?

The things left unsaid, the chances

unseized, the paths unwalked

because 'not' felt safer

than the messy bloom of 'yes'?

In eyes, feel this longer,

the slow unfurling of perception,

a moment held still

until the dust motes dance visible,

until the true contour of the moment settles in.

To appreciate me as a person,

this seems a simple plea,

yet it requires a dismantling

of the carefully stacked boxes

we use to store each other.

To see past the function,

the role played on the temporary stage.

As for all is exhausting,

the endless churn of becoming,

the constant calibration of self

against the demands of the light.

Breathing itself becomes a labor,

a conscious pull against gravity’s insistence.

An then life your cause of,

or perhaps purpose,

a word too grand perhaps,

for the small acts of kindness

or the persistent showing up

at the appointed time.

Is the purpose simply this:

the act of living itself,

unadorned, unjudged?

Is this life youme too not to me,

a blurring of the lines,

the 'you' and 'me' becoming porous,

sharing the same tired air?

A recognition that the struggle

reflected in your gaze

is the twin flame of my own quiet battle.

You not two,

but a single, complex thread

woven through the tapestry of passing time,

learning the shape of quiet acceptance,

where 'possibly not'

gives way to a gentle, open 'maybe.'

Know do how not to do not didn't don't know how to shut a fuck up