I want it.
I want it in the small, quiet ways and the loud, messy ways.
But even when it comes, it never feels whole — a hollow I can’t fill, no matter how soft or fierce or beautiful the other person is.
Could there be something wrong with me?
Could I be the common denominator in every misfire, every mismatch, every half-empty promise?
I ask myself these questions in the dark.
My body remembers touches that weren’t mine to keep, closeness that left before I could hold it.
I taste longing on my tongue — bitter, sweet, elusive.
I feel the pull of wanting someone to stay, and the urge to fold myself up before they can leave.
Maybe I am too much. Maybe I am not enough.
Maybe it is neither, and the space in between is just… space.
The room grows thinner around me.
I trace shapes in the air that aren’t there.
I reach for someone who doesn’t exist yet.
Every heartbeat is a question I can’t answer, and maybe it doesn’t need an answer yet.
I stop mid-thought.
I leave it there.
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