I.
in a desired love that resembled alienation—
no vows whispered beneath your blue suit,
your tie a bloodless knot,
our hands beneath the table, untouched.
you stared, then diagnosed,
oh, that american love,
after i said love should be a refuge
for our worst truths.
you called it messy. unnecessary.
i called it the only ethic
i could stomach.
II.
and there—
in that disagreement—
the first partition appeared:
two languages refusing translation.
you stirred your cup
as if rehearsing silence,
steam ghosting the face
you keep in public.
i watched restraint glow faintly,
a small theology of distance
you believed to be grace.
III.
my eight-year-old asteroid map,
forty-seven lonely craters,
numbered and named—
i catalogued every time
i felt alone that year.
you smiled, said kids are strange,
stirred your americano,
never tracing the distance
between yourself
and everyone you’ve ever known—
like a raj-era officer
counting ledger lines.
“first lust for rocks,” you said,
missed the orbits of my solitude.
now my adult eyes follow the same lines—
you see a child’s drawing of desire,
not the blueprint of exile.
IV.
when you ask about my morality,
i say it began in quiet discretion.
you sigh—again—
a man who has never been a territory to be lost.
i do not sigh.
i press my thumb
into the fresh bruise of your absence—
a test. to feel something
other than this knowing.
and still—
here we are:
your hands hover over empty pages.
the map folds itself shut,
its craters darkening to script.
i trace the borders once more,
not to claim—
only to remember where the distance began.
Oct 11, 2025
Oct 11, 2025 at 11:16 AM UTC
I.
in a desired love that resembled alienation—
no vows whispered beneath your blue suit,
your tie a bloodless knot,
our hands beneath the table, untouched.
you stared, then diagnosed,
oh, that american love,
after i said love should be a refuge
for our worst truths.
you called it messy. unnecessary.
i called it the only ethic
i could stomach.
II.
and there—
in that disagreement—
the first partition appeared:
two languages refusing translation.
you stirred your cup
as if rehearsing silence,
steam ghosting the face
you keep in public.
i watched restraint glow faintly,
a small theology of distance
you believed to be grace.
III.
my eight-year-old asteroid map,
forty-seven lonely craters,
numbered and named—
i catalogued every time
i felt alone that year.
you smiled, said kids are strange,
stirred your americano,
never tracing the distance
between yourself
and everyone you’ve ever known—
like a raj-era officer
counting ledger lines.
“first lust for rocks,” you said,
missed the orbits of my solitude.
now my adult eyes follow the same lines—
you see a child’s drawing of desire,
not the blueprint of exile.
IV.
when you ask about my morality,
i say it began in quiet discretion.
you sigh—again—
a man who has never been a territory to be lost.
i do not sigh.
i press my thumb
into the fresh bruise of your absence—
a test. to feel something
other than this knowing.
and still—
here we are:
your hands hover over empty pages.
the map folds itself shut,
its craters darkening to script.
i trace the borders once more,
not to claim—
only to remember where the distance began.
no drugs
just learning obscurity,
a sudden intolerance for ********
and a life that never saw the river swell in monsoon.
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