We do not meet. And yet,
the sun that warms your skin this morning
is the same sun that finds me sitting here,
touching the places where the light
still remembers you.
The rain that soaks your hair,
that runs down your neck, your wrists—
it finds me too.
It fills the hollows of this room,
washes the dust from things I haven't moved,
things I haven't said.
We are both touched by the same water.
We just never stand in it together.
The moon that follows you home at night
is the same moon that sits with me
when sleep won't come.
It has seen you turn in your sleep.
It has seen me not turn at all.
It knows everything
and tells nothing.
And the sky—
the same sky that holds your clouds,
your birds, your quiet—
holds mine too.
Same blue.
Same vastness.
Same silence.
You are not far.
You are everywhere except here.
The light reaches you first.
Then it travels.
Then it arrives at my door,
worn out,
as if it has crossed a country
instead of just a street.
We do not meet.
But the space between us
has learned my breathing.
It knows when I think of you—
because it tightens.
We do not meet.
But the distance between us
has learned my body perfectly—
the way a scar knows
the blade has left.
We are two people
living in the same world,
touched by the same sun,
soaked by the same rain,
watched by the same moon,
held by the same sky.
And still—
still—
we do not meet.