Did you forget the man who sat alone,
or did the world simply move past him
without turning its head?
Why should I cry,
he wonders,
when solitude has learned my name
and says it gently.
He casts his vision toward the ocean—
not to be saved,
but to be mirrored.
The water knows about distance.
It knows how to hold everything
and still feel empty.
Conversation comes often,
words passing like birds overhead,
but none land long enough
to build a nest.
He knows the ingredients well:
time, silence,
the habit of being strong in private.
Loneliness isn’t the absence of people.
It’s the presence of thought
with nowhere to set it down.
So he sits—
far, yet somehow together with himself,
honest in a way crowds never allow.
Not broken.
Not forgotten.
Just listening
to the vastness answer back.
Letters from Xhale the magazine Words that breathe. Stories that Linger, 