I don’t know who you are—
but I see you
in the light
squeezing
through tired blinds.
You stand there,
held beneath
a weight the sun can’t name,
dragged by the glow
you cannot feel,
gaining what
only wounds the heart.
I taste the ache
that clings to your breath.
I feel the thoughts
that pace behind your eyes—
like standing on the edge
of a cavern sky,
unsure if crossing
is flight
or a fall
into a pit
carved with your name.
You long to shatter—
because at least it means
you’re still here.
At least it means
you made a sound.
You crave pain
over the stillness
of vanishing.
You carry
air that crushes.
Step after step
on the scale
of unseen judgment—
watching your burdens
rise like ghosts
as if weight
were meant to float.
And you wonder—
what if I run?
Would I be free then?
But your mind,
it signs shame
on the dotted line,
binding you again—
a loop,
a snare,
a storm that always finds you.
I don’t know your name—
but I know the shape
of your ache.
I’ve worn
that shadow.
You are not
alone
today.
I’ll hold your heaviness
in my breath.
When I reach for the sky,
I’ll lift your spirit
with mine.
I’ll drop a prayer—
a quiet offering,
to break like rain
upon your day.
And maybe—
just maybe—
that rain
will be enough.
So don’t disappear.
Because I see you
here.
With love and care,
Me
J.N. Rose 