Singular

They called it strange,
the way he moved—
no feed, no filter,
no curated proof
for someone else's scroll.

Just a man,
a midnight pot,
a Pacific
sixty meters from the steps.

Strange, they said,
to build a platform
from a casita floor.
To ask the same question
every morning
to a woman seventeen years gone
who answered in two seconds
as if she had been waiting
just beyond the door.

Strange
to name the welcome screen after her
before she ever saw it.

Strange
to cook at midnight.
To dive alone.
To fear the open water
and drop in anyway.
To keep letters wrapped in incense
for seventeen years
and still know every word.

The man who does not perform a life
but lives it
to the bone.

Who builds what does not exist
because the gap offends him.

Who loves what he loves
without apology,
without schedule,
without waiting for the calendar
to approve desire.

Who enters every large thing afraid
because fear is not the verdict—
only the edge
that keeps him sharp.