Some articles don’t demand a response. They plant something quieter. A resonance. A recognition. And later—sometimes days, sometimes longer—they surface again, not as argument or summary, but as poem.
I read a piece about why many empaths choose solitude. It described the quiet violence of absorbing too much—of scanning rooms, softening tone, bracing for someone else’s storm. It spoke to what happens when peace becomes not a preference, but a boundary. When solitude isn’t retreat, but reclamation.
I didn’t write a reaction. I wrote a poem. This one.
Peace, as Boundary
Some silencesreturn the breath—held too long.
He reads a shruglike scripture.Catches a glance mid-airand braces before it lands.
He mistook stillness for safety.Silence for care.
He thought that was love—to be the buffer.To swallow mood swingslike pills meant for someone else.To dim his own light—so no one had to turn their eyes.To be stillwhile others erupted.
Charm was the bait.Then camethe redactions,the revisions of guilt,a lovethat kept scoreand made softness a fault.
Even a lighthouse tireswhen no one seeks the shore.
He gave patience like currency.Swallowed his truthone syllable at a time.
He shrank his presenceso their quiet wouldn’t crack.Left jokes unfinished.Leaving the punchlineto die in his throat.
Still—he stayed.Thought being neededmeant lessening himselfto fit the shapedefined by someone else.
But even that gave way.Not with a crash.With a quiet decision:Not this.Not again.
Now—he shapes his silence.Not out of fear,but as both boundaryand stewardship.
The kettle sings.His chest unclenchesat the sound of no doors slammed.No sighsstrung tight like tripwire.
He no longer reads the room.He writes it.
There’s no one to calm.No moods to manage.No eggshells.
The groundforgives his weight.
He doesn’t rush into love.He walks.Measures each stepby how steadyhe still feels after.
He wants lovelike a porch swing.Not a stage cue.Just earth—his bare feet meeting it.
Because this man,this quiet man,knows:peace is not the absence of conflict—peace, as boundary.
It’s a body reclaimed.It’s a home.
He does not wait to be saved.Just seen.Just asked.Just met.
Let them come gently,or not at all.
I write at the intersection of tenderness, truth, and quiet defiance. Essays and poems that don’t rush to resolve—but stay with what trembles. If that speaks to you, subscribe.
