He called himself “nothing” once.

I almost stopped him.

How does the sky call itself empty

when it holds entire storms?

How does the night say it is dark

when it carries every star?

How does a wound call itself weak

when it learned how to close?

Or time call itself slow,

when it outlives everything it touches?

He was everything

life tried to quiet,

everything silence couldn’t bury...

He carried oceans in his chest

and still apologized

for making a little noise.

But the world has a way

of making loud souls

feel like echoes.

So he became smaller,

spoke softer,

and learned to disappear

without ever leaving.

And still,

he stood there…

believing he was nothing.

As if oceans

could forget they are deep.

As if the sky

could apologize for being endless.

As if something born to shine

could convince itself

it was made for darkness.