Maybe

Maybe the telling of the story is what you need to do
The act of speaking, the act of exhale, the act of sending the signal out
Maybe the receiving of the story, the feeling with, the sympathizing, the crying for, the smiling after
Maybe that's not your job; maybe that's theirs
Those faceless ones, at who you deliberately do not stare
Whose weighted judgments, shadows though they are, gnaw and
Weigh, weigh you all the way down to your insecure little bones
Rattling in the raking of your own wind.
Maybe they're not the blizzards you think they are
Maybe the act of listening does something to a person
We so rarely do it fully these days, but even still, when we do, we open up
We unfurl our sails, we catch your wind and soar as you soar
Our brains light up as beacons along the way
We roll through the same fog, sifting
The same sand, hand in ever present hand,
Because we know the way is all too familiar.
Maybe we can't both breathe out and breathe in at the same time.
Maybe we shouldn't expect ourselves to.