I am by myself—
the room hums like a held breath,
coffee gone cold on the sill.
I am not alone—
the floorboards creak under ghosts
who still remember my name,
and outside, wind argues with leaves
like old friends who never quite agree.
I trace the grain of the table,
feel the weight of every hand
that ever rested here—
mine, yours, the ones before us.
Solitude isn’t empty.
It’s crowded with echoes,
with the soft rustle of what-ifs,
and the quiet promise
that someone, somewhere,
is listening to the same silence.
So I sit.
I breathe.
I stay.
And the dark leans in—
not to swallow me,
but to say,
“You are enough.”