the spaces between us 

who are you—
to me?

a question that lingers
like dust caught in the quiet light
of a windowpane,
dancing but never settling.

i want to know you more,
but the weight of fear
sits heavy in my chest.

what if my intentions—
those fragile, trembling things—
are twisted in your eyes
into something they are not?
again.

to me, you are a friend,
a soul still unfolding before me,
like a book whose pages
i have yet to turn.

they tell me
you are not what you seem,
that your shadows are darker
than the light i see in you.

but i cannot believe it.
i won't.
because somehow
you don’t fit the shape
of their words.

who are you?
why does it feel
as though the threads of something infinite
pull us closer,
binding us in ways i cannot name?

i want to know you,
and i want you to know me—
not just the parts i offer,
but the pieces i keep hidden,
even from myself.

who will we become to one another?
will this connection
be a fleeting ember
or a quiet, steady flame?

was i meant to find you,
or did i stumble upon you
by accident?

and if it’s an accident,
does it make it any less divine?

tell me,
who are we,
in this moment,
in the spaces between words,
between silences,
between lives?