Call me Sage—
born between two stories:
one built of deadlines and Wi-Fi,
one carrying the quiet heat of memory.
Half steel, half soft skin,
walking the corridors,
badge swinging from my neck.

Maybe I chased old dreams once—
in books, in travel,
under statues and skylines.
Now the world sits on my desk,
dim light through blinds,
numbers melting into the next hour.

My figure—average.
My mind—quick when it needs to be.
I walk through judgment
like glass doors that don’t quite shut,
cut but polished smooth.

I find small rewards in connection—
when two people talk past the script,
share a thought,
a hint of who they really are.
To understand is to fade the edges;
to care,
is to dissolve a little.

And when the day ends,
I pack up,
watch the streetlights blink on—
a slow ship
finding its way home.