The strange habit of existing

Time has left its mark
on my face.

Not all of them are important.

A few memories,
a few mistakes,
a touch of weariness.

A wrinkle near the mouth,
two or three fewer illusions,
the ability not to make a phone call.

For years I thought
that life was supposed to be
something extraordinary.

Now, all I need is
a cup of coffee on the terrace.
The silence of the trees
would be enough.

It happens.

Even grand words
at some point
no longer say anything.

Even restless hearts
continue stubbornly
to long for peace.

Take me, for example.

I still find myself
climbing a few steps
just to see
if I’m still myself
or if I’ve simply
become a quieter version
of myself.

Of course,
I could throw myself into the fire again.

Not out of courage.
Out of necessity.

Out of the need
to help
even where no one
wants to be saved.

Human beings
have a remarkable knack
for repeating what hurts them.

And yet I still believe
that somewhere out there
there is someone
capable of staying.

Not to save me.

Just
to share with me
this strange habit
of existing.

Perhaps people
meet in just this way:
arriving, weary,
at the same spot in the world.

Without really knowing
why.