Quiet Acceptance

Quiet Acceptance

Looking into the peaceful yet penetrating
large brown marble,
I catch my own reflection—
a man with a camera, squinting,
convinced he’s clever for noticing
the slightest lift of the horse’s eyebrow.

For a moment I wonder—
is he impressed with my stature?
Surprised by my confidence?
No.
The truth lands.
That’s not admiration at all,
but something cooler, drier:
bemusement.

Because while I read surface signs,
he reads everything—
the tremor of my pulse
echoing in his ears,
the breath of my morning
woven into the air between us,
the subtle gravity
of my body’s weight.

To him,
nothing is hidden.
Every trace of me—
heartbeat, scent, presence—
arrives unfiltered,
without disguise.

Yet after tallying it all—
my hurried pulse,
my puffed-up self-regard,
my ordinary hungers and faults—

Still,
he exhales slowly,
blinks once,
and accepts me—
not for the man I imagine myself to be,
but for the fragile, flawed creature,
standing bare before him.