The Simon I knew

 I knew him
always moved like he was late
for a conversation no one else could hear
navigating cities that were not there

He was never the loud one.
Never effortless, struggling to be a friend or a son
But he watched
God, how he watched

Saw adults lie with their smiles
He saw children pretending to be strong
He learned early that silence even if it felt wrong
Could be both shield and weapon

He felt small in rooms
The ones he finally outgrew 
Carried that hard smallness in his pocket
Rock he rubbed smooth with friction from his mind

He romanticized possibilities
Built castles out of glances
Turned unfinished stories
into epic myths of victory or oblivion

He wanted to matter.
Not overtly
just undeniably
He wanted to shape the air

To touch something that would provke the senses
Feel it shift
Celebrate it's life
Before being pulled back into the mundane

Why that need for control
Why those waves of intensity
ponderings aloft hovering
at the edge of being himself
Chaos felt more alive

He was evasive
Knowing clarity would expose him
He could hesitate
right when courage was required

He mistook complexity
for depth
Tied up in ideas
lost, breathless

But he also had stamina
When feelings hit him like weather,
he did not collapse
He interpreted the storm

His tenderness for a given few
He pretends is incidental.
It isn’t
It is in his bones

He can hold someone’s vulnerability
without flinching 
Even his own 
He rarely admits it’s brave.

He has a spine for virtue
Bends under pressure
but does not break
Wonders the shape of lies

He wants to be bold
Not reckless 
He wants to feel he earned it
Through his inventions and sweat

He was awkward, yes
Intense, too often
Sometimes too hungry
for proof that he mattered

He was never cruel
Never careless with truth
Never indifferent
Or overly ruthless

That’s the Simon I knew

He is still here, writing about himself like a maniac