We share a life
the way two lines share a page.

Close.
Consistent.
Never touching.

From a distance
it holds its shape.

The structure of it
convincing enough
that no one questions
what it contains.

But inside
there is a quiet
that does not belong
to two people.

Conversations pass through
without settling.

Care moves in one direction
and does not return.

You can feel it
in the small, daily ways.

The absence of being seen
even while standing
directly in front of someone.

I stopped reaching
for certain things.

Not out of anger.
Out of recognition.

You learn, eventually,
which doors
do not open.

So I live here
alongside you

in a life that looks shared
to everyone else

while carrying
the full weight of it

alone.