Lines

Lines. They separate us. You’re here and I’m here. But the distance is too big. Leaps of faith are fatal, and I don’t want to be a causality of misplaced trust. Comfort offers a tattered seat that’s the color of your eyes. I sink deeper without moving an inch.

Lines. They show us a mirror and shout ‘you’re too different’ till we start feeling the same. We never listen, anyway. I bite my nails as you leave your seat to stand next to mine. You won’t sit. You don’t want to get too comfortable, do you?

Lines. They remember. The curves and the crevices. The ones we made and the ones where we hid. They don’t say much, they change as we do, form as we move. They don’t say much, but they stay in hopes that we’d remember too.

Lines. They connect us. It’s impossible to say where one ends and another begins. They move together and never meet. Or meet once and never again. There’s no map telling us which point we’re at. Only signs telling us that we’re just points on each other’s lines.

And that there’ll be more. How do you know which point counts the most? The one that starts it or the one that ends it? Or the one that makes the middle bearable? Lines.

Lines are just lines. We don’t have to overthink them. They will stay, even when we leave. They will mark us for every point we score.