POEM
There’s a silence that lives between breaths,
a place where the world forgets to spin.
In that pause, we stand—
not quite lovers, not quite lost—
but something between
what we were and what we might become.
You look at me as though the air could speak,
as though the weight of a glance
might tip the scale,
and everything we know could scatter like dust.
But still, we stay in the quiet,
waiting for the first word to fall.
It’s not desire,
not the hunger that pulls us near—
it’s the knowing,
the delicate pull of two edges meeting
without needing to fuse.
We find a rhythm, not in touch,
but in the spaces we leave untouched.
Your hand, close,
but just far enough that the heat lingers
and never quite ignites.
We are the almosts, the never-theres,
the echoes of something too soft to name.
Yet somehow, we are enough,
two beings in the breathless dark,
holding not each other—
but the quiet between.