He and I,
we're sitting side by side on a Sunday night,
watching mindless TV.
He puts his arm around my back,
his hand playing with the ends of my hair carelessly,
as I put my head on his shoulder.

We don't say a word.

The audience in the show laughs
and I feel his chest shake under my hand.
My mind starts wandering
while I think of puzzle pieces and the two faces of a coin
before I have an epiphany:

I can't tell anymore
where he starts and I end.

I've known those paths on your arms,
the familiar roads intersecting on your stomach
as long as I've known you.

I didn't like looking at your eyes,
I didn't like seeing the pitiful smile you put on.
I don't understand this.
I don't understand.
I didn't.
I didn't think I'd ever understand
the pain of birthing those scars.

I thought I'd never see you again,
but you must be here
to witness the birth of my own scars.

My heart is singing again,
can your hear its excited beat?
Rumbling inside the cave of my chest
like a beast awakened from a long slumber.
"I am here, once more,
and I won't be leaving for a while," it’s telling me.
But can something that I thought was lost forever
truly come back from the dead?

I will silently watch it -this heart-
trudge an unfamiliar world for you,
take its first hesitant steps for you.
I will be satisfied watching its progress from the sides—
I won't hold it back this time.

And when you're done with this
battered, used heart, I will tend to
its wounds and nurse it back to death.

I will thank you for making
my heart sing for this short time,
for making my cheeks blush,
for giving me a reason to anticipate
time flying quickly so that the only highlights
of my days were the moments I spent with you.

We are clouds drifting apart in the sky,
like lone islands floating in the expanse of the blue ocean,
aimless, lost.
We are strangers who happen to be travelling the same unknown road
as long it is going somewhere.


He merely lives across from my room
where I am writing this, but the space
that lies between our rooms is
a 38th parallel I cannot cross.


I would surround myself with a warm blanket and written words
at night when the temperature drops,
while I can only guess at what he is doing.
'Oh, he must still be hunched over his table,
intently bringing sketches on paper to life,'
my mind could only muse.

We are living together, but barely speaking,
barely looking at each other.
To the other, we are simply occupying a shared space,
seeking comfort in each other's uncomplicated existences.