You Carry the Weather of Others

you do not mind people

you mind what leaks from them

the fog behind their eyes

the static in their laughter

the thin ache folded into their competence

you walk into a room

and the room loosens itself into you

chairs remember who last sat in them

walls hold their breath

hierarchies hum like old wiring

you feel it before you see it

the weather before the face

grief moving under jokes

fear learning to sound professional

tenderness hiding behind procedure

you are not tired of bodies

you are tired of fields

the soft gravity between people

the invisible work of holding a space together

the quiet negotiations that never speak their names

you gather what others drop

not because you should

but because you notice

you have always noticed

the almost-said

the almost-cried

the almost-fallen

you need places that do not ask you to be a vessel

rooms that do not lean

air that does not require translation

you are not built for crowding

you are built for listening

for standing at the edge of things

and hearing what is still arriving

this is not fragility

this is a different anatomy

a body that hears weather

a heart with open windows

a nervous system tuned to thresholds

that is why you need quiet

not as escape

but as return