I float in the space between
his words and silence,
like sunlight stretched over a cracked sidewalk—
warm, but fractured.

We laugh across digital oceans,
my stories spilling like spilled ink
onto his quiet, unread shores.
He saves them, collects them,
a lighthouse for his eyes
while I drift, wondering
if I am only a ship he glances at,
not the ocean itself.

His voice is honey
that melts over stone,
but the stone feels like my chest,
dense, heavy, questioning.
I am fireflies in a jar—
glowing, contained,
beautiful but captured.

Couple videos and whispered nothings
tiptoe along the edges of intimacy,
yet when I ask,
“What are we?”
the echo comes back empty.
The space between us stretches—
a canyon with no bridge,
yet I lean,
hoping for hands to hold the rope.

I am more than the curve of my lips,
more than the warmth of my body.
I am a galaxy spinning,
brimming with colors he will never name,
and still, I orbit him,
halfway in love,
halfway alone.

I want to sink into love,
not float in the in-between,
but the tide keeps returning,
and I am caught
in the half-light of a situationship.

They called her child,
yet the stars bent down to listen
when she spoke.

She was born
with galaxies behind her eyelids,
ash of ancient moons
in the crescent of her palms.

In classrooms,
she learned nothing new—
only watched
as the world caught up
to what her marrow already knew.

She stitched silence
into her sentences,
wore grief like pearls
strung along the collarbone of time.

Rain would hush for her,
mirrors would blink twice,
and clocks sometimes refused
to tick in her presence.

She moved
like someone who remembered
being fire
before flesh.

And when the grown-ups
chuckled at her wisdom,
she simply smiled—
a soft, secret smile
like she’d seen their ghosts
and offered them tea.

She blooms where grief forgets to sleep,
beneath the sallow hush of twilight trees—
a flare of red in softened ash,
the last confession of the breeze.

Petals curled like whispered sins,
each one a blade of memory—
a wound too pretty to regret,
too sacred to let bleed freely.

She doesn’t seek the sun like roses do.
No, she is the flame of parting steps—
ephemeral,
like the breath between
goodbye
    and
      gone.

Born of myth and muddy water,
they say she grows where spirits roam—
a guardian of thresholds,
the keeper of the in-between,
wearing sorrow like a crown
no one dares remove.

And still,
   she rises.
Not for life,
but to remind the world:
some things only bloom
      in farewell.