The weird person is on—
reading what I read,
his shadow leaning
over the glow of my screen.
My words are not alone anymore;
my thoughts suddenly
have an audience
I never invited.
I want to work,
to walk quietly through my tasks,
to build my little towers of focus.
But he wants to chat—
words knocking on the door
of my concentration,
again and again,
like restless rain on a window.
Taking a file
from under my lappy—
holy moly!
What kind of scene is this?
My desk, my space,
my tiny island of calm
turned into a strange little storm.
How come
that that kind of person exists?
And not somewhere far away,
not in a distant story—
but near me,
right here,
inside the borders
of my breathing space.
Holy moly,
what kind of heart
do I need
to face him,
to handle him
without losing the quiet
inside my chest?
Maybe not a heart of anger,
sharp like broken glass.
Maybe not a heart that runs away
every time footsteps come close.
Maybe I need
a mountain heart—
steady, silent,
unmoved by noisy winds.
Maybe I need
a river heart—
flowing around the rocks,
never stopping,
never losing its way.
So let him talk.
Let him wander
through the edges of my day.
I will return
to my work,
to my words,
to the calm little universe
inside my screen.
And when he asks again,
when the strange moment repeats,
I will simply smile and say,
"Not now.
I'm working."
And my quiet
will return
like sunlight
after a passing cloud. 🌤️
