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.