From the Outside

From the Outside

From the outside,

Your eyes, so young and yet so worn,

Told stories of wars waged and won

Bearing scars that you wear with pride,

And yet, behind that head held high, 

The silent ache of those wounds

Which will take forever and a half to heal

Speak louder than the most boisterous voice ever could.

From the outside,

You speak with the timbre of someone

Who has a lifetime's worth of tales to tell,

And yet, the narrative suddenly shifts,

Matching the latest direction you've decided is yours.

You rewrite your story mid-sentence

And never ask for permission

To become anything more (or less) than what is handed to you.

From the outside,

The exits were the first thing you memorised,

While I was there, measuring the room.

The room is well-lit, covered in mirrors,

And that is where our eyes meet.

And yet, this only happens for a split second.

All too often, you vanish, evaporate, behind those same mirrors

That I was never allowed to look into.

From the outside,

It took me a while to learn

That proximity is not the same as access.

You could spend years sitting beside someone, on the same bench,

And never have the same view.

And yet, for those brief moments,

We shift ourselves, bringing us just a tad closer,

And our perspectives align, albeit briefly.

From the outside,

Those abstract moments, where you let the mask slip -

Of course, only simple phrases sitting between complete sentences - 

Never go unnoticed, along with their weight.

And yet, I know they're just that: words,

And that nothing weighs more than the armour

That is your ambition.

I always notice how loudly it clangs when you walk.

From the outside,

You looked as though you were standing still,

Taking a small pause in between destinations,

Catching your breath.

And yet, even when motionless,

You always stood like someone mid-departure,

Waiting for an invisible thread to tug you somewhere better.

I never asked about the destination.

From the outside,

You sound as though you've composed your own symphony.

You sing to no one's tune but your own,

And conduct your surroundings to play the melody to perfection.

And yet, the transposition was never seamless,

And the music's harmony never flawless.

The precision you pride yourself upon,

It was never rooted in true certainty.

From the outside,

You were never meant to be seen in full.

You treat people to half the glass

And are used to them being satiated.

And yet, even if glimpses are all you're meant to give,

You occasionally, intentionally, let that extra drop slip,

Waiting to see who'll hear its impact

And who'll pause, and meet your false surprise.

From the outside,

The image is perfectly polished,

Requiring no further tampering or editing.

The colours all fit neatly within the lines.

And yet, that doesn't stop me from tracing the outlines

And from attempting to smoothen the rougher edges.

The one thing that stops me in my tracks,

Is the disappearance of the picture altogether.

From the outside,

You run before you could ever be caught.

You blaze your own trail, you follow no footsteps,

But create your own and marvel at the path.

And yet, you ache with a quiet curiosity

As to what four would look like, as opposed to two.

Will someone pick up the minuscule breadcrumbs,

And attempt to glimpse at the horizon you seek?