I learned to wait
by watching doors that never opened.
By counting the seconds
before a room decided what it was.

Light gives itself away.
So do people—
not when they’re ready,
but when they forget they’re being seen.

I don’t ask for anything.
I stand where the floor is worn thin
and let the day step around me.

Houses hold their breath.
Streets confess in fragments.
Workrooms hum with the small violence
of getting through another hour.

People pass through.
They leave a shape behind.

Families fracture and mend.
Musicians argue with time.
Teams learn who they are
when the noise drops out.

I take what’s offered.
No corrections.
No second takes.

I’m not here for perfect.
I’m here for the moment
that looks back
and knows it’s been seen.