A universe — the author who doesn’t apologize
for the way it decides to write its skies.
It inscribes human souls with patient lines,
then scatters them into distant rhymes.
Stories shift without our say.
Pages turn their separate way.
You — a line I skimmed too fast,
a footnote in a chapter passed.
We moved along in careful prose,
loved different lines, wore different clothes.
Built paragraphs with steady care,
never knowing you’d be there.
Our wants aligned without demand,
like mirrored maps drawn by one hand.
The life you dreamt, the one I see,
fits seamlessly in honest symmetry.
Your hands fit mine without debate —
no trembling doubt, no second wait.
Just warmth that did not need a cure.
We love each other.
Clear and sure.
But the universe, vast and cold,
does not revise what’s already told.
It keeps its ink where it first fell,
binds us softly in a parallel.
It hums beneath what we must do,
a quiet ache that whispers: you.
Not loud enough to change the end,
not soft enough to just pretend.
And so we stand beneath its art,
two threaded souls kept apart.
Two stars aware of how they shine,
forever fixed on separate lines.
Close enough to know the light,
far enough to lose what’s right.
Bound by something undefined —
written right,
but wrong in time.
Feb 25
Feb 25, 2026 at 12:05 PM UTC