The Space Between Words

We still talk sometimes 

as if distance never learned our names.

Our words hover on the surface,

carefully chosen,

never too warm,

never too close.

I’ve grown used to this quiet rhythm, 

your presence slipping through the gaps of my day,

arriving unannounced in thoughts I pretend not to linger on.

There’s a certain calm now,

a tender discipline in how we exist.

I ask how you’ve been,

you answer with that familiar ease,

and in those small exchanges,

something gentle survives,

unspoken, but understood.

I never say "I miss you".

Instead, I ask if the day still treat you kindly,

if the rain still finds its way into your favorite songs.

Tiny questions that mean nothing,

and everything.

Sometimes, I catch myself typing your name,

three letters that feel like a whisper,

then I erase it,

as if the thought itself is enough.

Because maybe it is.

Maybe care doesn’t always need a voice.

Maybe closeness can live quietly,

in the pauses we never fill,

in the echoes we never claim.

So I’ll keep this space gentle,

unspoken,

untouched,

but never empty.