you pulled your chair closer without asking
the way someone moves toward a sound
they are not sure they heard correctly
i told you about the knot that lives behind my sternum
the one that tightens when a door opens unexpectedly
and you wrote something down and then looked up
and said tell me more about the door
you did not flinch at the inventory
the years of white rooms, the wrists, the names i called myself
at the miniature tables built for small compliance
you just kept your pen moving
the way a person keeps walking in the rain
because stopping doesn't make you less wet
you told me to describe the panic
not to fix it, just to describe it
the way a field biologist describes a specimen
with precision and without judgment
and for the first time the dark had edges
something i could measure itheynstead of drown in
there is a specific quality of attention
that feels like being found in a room
where you had stopped expecting anyone to look
i don't have a name for what you do
i only know that i leave your office
and the air outside is a different temperature
than the air inside
and both of them are bearable
—lyra moon (they keep a small cactus on the windowsill that has been blooming for three years)
july 14, 2026