The Space Between

I pull the air from your lungs,
and you, unaware, cannot exhale.
It hangs here,
like the distance between stars—
a gap you cannot touch,
a void you can only imagine.

You’ve never known this separation,
but its shape is starting
to form in your mind.

The human body—
thirty-seven trillion cells,
each a world within itself,
countless beings
reaching for something elusive,
a truth suspended
just out of grasp.

There are billions of us,
yet I am not among them,
and you understand this
without words.

You wonder how far we’ve drifted,
how far the breath has traveled
before it found you,
caught in this space—
between desire
and the unsaid.

I move through you
like time,
pressed against the belly
of a silent truth.
You feel it—
beneath your ribs, beneath your skin.
Yet you remain still.

You search for me in the stars,
but the stars don’t matter—
it’s the darkness between them
that holds your hunger.
I will never show you
all of it,
but you recognize it
in how you move toward me—
in your refusal
to turn away.

We are not galaxies
in any conventional sense—
not mapped in equations,
not charted in light.
These galaxies
don’t need light to be seen.
They exist in the space
between us,
like minds meeting
before thought takes shape,
before we name
what is.

We move toward each other,
not by the laws of physics,
but by the pull
of something older,
something that has always burned
in the quiet tension
between selves.