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Personal Note:

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Poem

He walks in — not enters.
Like dusk folding over day.
No swagger, no need,
just the echo of boots
and the hush of questions unasked.

Black coat,
black eyes,
black thoughts he never spills.
Not the kind who orders loudly —
just lifts a finger,
and the bartender nods like a man who’s seen God once… and forgot how to breathe.

He sits in the corner
where shadows speak more than people,
nursing a single cold beer
like a sermon,
while his silence teaches the room
that real power never begs.

Women glance —
not because he tries,
but because he doesn’t.
He is the absence that demands presence,
the gravity in a world full of helium men.

No phone.
No smile.
No past anyone dares ask about.

He watches the room
the way a wolf studies the forest —
not hungry,
just aware
of what he could take
but chooses not to.

A laugh breaks across the bar —
cheap and empty.
He doesn’t flinch.
His silence is a blade,
and it cuts deeper than noise ever could.

Then he stands.
One slow motion.
The kind you feel in your spine.

He leaves no tip, no trace —
only a whisper of cold air
and questions in the eyes of strangers.

By the time anyone asks,
he’s already smoke in the night.

And somewhere,
a woman falls in love
with a man she’s never spoken to.

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