Geometry of Longing

I meet you
where the world thins into light,
where words arrive without footsteps
and intimacy does not ask permission.

Here, you come to me
sentence by sentence,
carefully,
as if affection were a document
that must not contradict itself.

I know you
by your pauses,
by the hours you choose to exist for me,
by the way your words lean forward
and then retreat,
as if afraid of becoming true.

We share a closeness
that never overheats.
Our hands do not interrupt us.
Our faces are spared the burden of honesty.
And yet,
my heart responds
as though it has been called by name.

Tell me,
when does this become real?

Is it when your absence
changes the temperature of the room?
When my body turns toward a screen
with the same obedience
it once reserved for doors opening?

I imagine you in ordinary acts:
standing in line,
tying your shoes,
breathing without thinking of me,
and this imagining feels
dangerously like love.

But real life waits,
patient and exacting.
It will demand a voice
that cannot be edited,
a silence that must be shared
without explanation.

I fear meeting you,
not because the spell might break,
but because it might hold,
and ask for weight,
for mornings,
for a future that cannot be postponed.

Here, we are permitted
to remain gentle.
To want without touching.
To love without consequence.

And still,
some nights,
I wish for the reckless proof of you:
your breath misaligned with mine,
your presence ruining
the careful perfection of distance.

Perhaps this is love now,
not the collision of bodies,
but the sustained attention
we offer each other
across impossible space.

If this is not real life,
why does it feel
like something I would grieve
if it ended?