buy disulfiram online What a Privilege
To be worn out
by the very work
you once begged for—
with the life you asked to live.
To be tested
by the shape
you gave your own world,
challenged by a climb
you once dreamed
would be yours.
To see the small, quiet life
you used to lead
shrinking in the rearview.
And to feel overwhelmed
by the bloom of it all—
the growth,
the noise,
the motion—
and know:
this was once
only hope.
Fuchūchō Sleeper Car, 2AM
I built you a signal
out of street lamps and nervous music,
looped through static.
You didn’t pick up,
but I called anyway.
At 2AM, every seat in the sleeper car
was a shrine
to the way you never arrived.
I sat facing backwards,
watching the past shrink.
They served coffee in paper cups
like some war was ending
and we’d all survived it,
except I hadn’t,
and you were never drafted.
The train took mountains
like you took compliments—
slowly, suspiciously,
then gone without a word.
You once told me
stars only look still
because they’re dying so far from us.
You made that sound romantic.
You made most things hurt kindly.
I mailed you a letter I didn’t write
from a station that doesn’t exist,
but I addressed it properly:
To the version of you
who still reads my words.
Now, I carry your name
like a fireproof match—
still whole,
still useless
in the rain.
And when I sleep,
I do so lightly,
in case you whisper something
through the wall
that I might still hear.
Cue to Light
Eight billion biopics.
And you have a supporting role
in a sliver, at best.
Perhaps you’re the barista
who remembers the lonely usual,
or the cab driver
who hums someone from the brink.
No monologue.
No slow-motion flashback.
But you held the door,
and someone noticed.
You lit a cigarette,
and someone quit.
You weren’t the star.
You were the scene
that made the star believable.
And that’s enough.
It always was.
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