No Longer a Foreigner

I am in pain—

not for lack of love,

but for love that wakes me

too full to sleep again.

I miss what it stirs:

the trembling in stillness,

the weight of meaning

in a glance,

the way time bends

when something real enters the room.

I live among shadows—

translations, roles,

the slow erosion

of self in silence.

But sometimes,

rarely,

I am seen

without needing to be explained.

And in that seeing,

I breathe.

Not survive—

breathe.

That is what I ache for.

Not a person,

but the miracle

of being allowed

to exist

without apology.

And for that—

for the moment it lasted,

for the memory it carved—

I would give anything.

Because in that moment,

I was not a foreigner.

I was finally

alive.