Thirty-One, Almost Thirty-Two
I am thirty-one,
almost thirty-two —
standing with one foot in the past,
the other testing tomorrow,
like a man checking thin ice
before trusting his weight.
A Virgo by the stars,
built from details,
from quiet corrections,
from the habit of fixing
what others overlook
or abandon too easily.
I am divorced —
not broken,
just rearranged by life.
Love didn’t end,
it changed its address.
I have two children
who don’t sleep under my roof,
but live permanently
in my chest.
Every silence reminds me of them,
every small victory is saved
to tell them one day.
I’m a little introverted —
not shy,
just selective with my soul.
I don’t shout to be seen,
I wait to be understood.
I am an overthinker, yes —
my mind runs marathons at night,
replaying conversations,
rewriting endings,
asking “what if”
like it’s a sacred prayer.
But thinking too much
means I care too deeply.
And caring, in a world like this,
is a quiet form of courage.
So here I stand —
almost thirty-two,
not perfect,
not finished,
still becoming.
A man with questions,
with love unfinished,
with children in his heart,
and hope — stubborn,
like me.
