A late train throws blue across my shoes
like I'm standing inside a moving screen.
Someone hums through wired headphones out of tune
and completely unafraid.
I lean my shoulder into a cold pillar,
watch dust spin in fluorescent light for a second.
Everything lines up strangely and the noise forgets to rush me.
I don't mark these moments anymore,
they leave their own imprint.
Things are rare in the way they arise,
not bound,
just perfectly placed.
Like finding my breath in the middle of
a crowd and knowing it chose to stay.
It isn't magic,
it's noticing what usually passes me by and letting it count.
A woman fixes her hair in a black phone screen,
smiles at herself then lets it drop.
A kid drags a stick along the metal rail,
turns waiting into music.
I used to hunch for meaning like a deadline,
circle days that promise more.
Tonight I watch it show up uninvited in small careless gestures.
I trust there's a kind of quiet
that doesn't
ask to be kept, it just stays.
Some things are rare in the way they hold me
when nothing special is supposed to happen.
Like my name sounding right inside my head without rehearsal,
without defense.
It isn't fragile,
it's the calm that doesn't need attention to exist.
I thought rare meant hard to reach,
high effort,
perfect timing.
But it feels more like a soft opening,
like being ready,
not finding.
No spotlight,
no perfect story,
no proof that it was enough.
Just a moment that knows exactly where to touch.
Some things are rare because they ask for
less and give more than I expect.
Like learning to be present without
trying to turn it into something else.
It isn't love,
it's letting the ordinary reveal what I kept missing.
Ooh.
My phone clears, my shoes stop glowing blue,
and I walk out holding something quiet that
finally feels enough.