I Was Supposed to Be Dead by Now

The room is quiet.
My body is not.
There is a hum under the shirt,
a current no one sees,
a tide that moves without moon.

I have been the loud one,
story at the ready,
laugh that fills a doorway.
I have also been the still one,
chair in the corner,
eyes counting exits,
hands inside their weather.

People say choose better.
As if nerves obey advice.
As if muscle memory is chalk
you can wipe from a board.
Life is not that simple.
It is wire and fire,
and you carry both.

When I was young, charts grew.
Two rooms kept watch
for a ledge no one else could find.
Better, they said.
Different, I learned.
Seasons turn, storms rename.

In my family, clocks run short.
Men leave early.
The heart keeps its own ledger.
If you placed your bet then,
you would not have gambled on forty five.
Yet here I stand, counting breath,
counting miles, counting mercies.

I live between worlds.
Cafés where steam climbs.
A book that opens like a small harbor.
A handful of voices I can hold.
I visit the noise and come home before midnight.
I have learned the cost of staying too long.

There are weeks the current breaks cover.
The tics rise like birds at once.
I try to pass for normal,
spending energy I do not have.
I do not always pass.
I keep walking anyway.

Do I want more. Yes.
Do I want everything. No.
Too much asks for rent I cannot pay.
So I choose a smaller bravery,
repeatable and true.
Show up for the friend.
Answer the text.
Write one clean line.

I have been the man who failed.
I have been the man who stood back up.
Both are me.
Both deserve a chair.
If you fall first, I will sit on the floor with you.
If I fall first, save me a hand.

There is faith in this.
Quiet, carried close.
Not a speech, a practice.
The breath you count.
The lamp you leave on.
The psalm you keep in a pocket.

The ocean teaches me.
Stand where the water meets sand.
Let the wave arrive and leave.
Do not fight what cannot be held.
Do not fear what will return.
There is rhythm here.
There is room.

I was supposed to be gone.
Yet I am here with ink and a pulse,
here with a cup that cools,
here with a page that listens.
I do not know how long.
I know enough for now.

So let the next hour open.
Let the next step be steady.
Let the heart keep time a little longer.
And if the old ghost waits,
let it wait outside while we work.
We have lives to mend.
We have names to call gently.
We have one more morning to begin.