We cascade through life
with the benevolent conundrum of cohabitation,
regardless of emotional interpretation, drifting beside each other like unfinished thoughts, unread paragraphs in the same collapsing book.
Tethered by invisible threads of proximity and timing, we speak in glances and half-gestures, broadcasting signals only the lonely know how to pick up.
I exist two inches from recognition, but a thousand miles from being seen.
There’s a hunger no meal satisfies, a need that doesn’t touch the skin, but scrapes the soul raw.
Not love, not tenderness, just the ache to collide with someone else’s honesty
and not come away apologizing for the mess.
We orbit. We brush past meaning. We pretend this version of living muted and measured, is enough. But the ache remains.
If this is coexistence, then maybe it’s not connection we crave, but acknowledgment, a pause in the noise where someone else’s presence echoes like proof that we were,
if only briefly,
understood.
The Wandering-Mind 