Untranslated

He speaks fluent pause, writes paragraphs in glances, but the world wants him to underline what he feels in italics. They say, “Look me in the eye.” He tries—but it’s like staring into a lighthouse during a storm. Too much light. Too much noise. At school, he mapped conversations like subway lines, trying to find the interchange between sarcasm and sincerity. When the teacher asked “Can anyone tell me what the poem means?” He said, “It means what it says.” They laughed. He didn’t. He catalogues the sound of coat zippers, remembers the dates birds disappeared from powerlines in March, but forgets to answer when someone says, “How was your weekend?” He builds silence like architecture— measured, intentional, each moment held like a breath in glass. Crowds feel like code with bugs, and he's always the patch update everyone forgets to install. He’s been told, “You’re not broken, just different.” But difference wears thin when you’re the only one reading the manual backwards. He dreams in patterns, thinks in spirals, and when he loves you, you are the entire algorithm that makes his world compute. They called it disorder, until someone wiser whispered, “It’s not disorder. It’s a different operating system.” He’s Windows in a Mac world, binary in a landscape of emotional jazz. His empathy is quiet— a silent lighthouse blinking through fog, a hand resting near yours but not quite touching, not yet. He doesn’t lie. He edits reality with careful precision— because truth, to him, is sacred code. He flaps when he’s flying, rocks when the world shakes. They ask why. He asks, “Why not?” When he was young, they tried to fix his starlight with fluorescent rules. But stars don’t follow road signs. They burn. And he burns bright— just not where everyone’s looking.