You learned this city by ear, not map,
turned risk into rhythm, earned marks on your back.
Not just a dream, you played from the start,
each line a reflection, each note from your heart.
I’ve seen you grow bolder, steadier in stride,
your humor still sharp but softer inside.
We meet in our questions, could stay there for days,
Jacob, I see you; I’m learning your ways.
I watch what you build, not in things but in light,
how you steady the pen just by holding it right.
It isn’t success, or the paths that you trace,
it’s the warmth in your motion, the calm in your grace.
What will they say when your ink runs dry,
when your voice finds its home in the wind, and sky?
It’s not the song, nor the stage, nor the praise that remains,
but simply you, my brother, in your Jacob ways.
And still I’ll be here, listening.