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.