Parallel Lines

Perhaps you will always be my parallel line—

two paths drawn by the same steady hand,

running so close, so achingly aligned,

yet never touching, never planned

to merge, to fold, to intertwine.

But tell me, is that truly loss?

Two lines that never cross

still hold their shape, their quiet grace,

still travel forward, side by side,

still keep the other's rhythm, pace,

a silent kind of stride.

I think of you not as an ache,

though pain has surely lived here too—

I think of you as sunlight on a lake,

a warmth that doesn't need to break

the water's skin to shine on through.

We were never meant to fuse,

to become one single, tangled thread.

We were meant to walk, to choose

our own direction, yet instead

of drifting far, of growing loose,

we stayed. We held the space between

like something sacred, something clean.

There is a strength in loving so,

in letting distance be the proof

that what we share will never go

the way of things that come unglued.

Some loves are built to hold, to grow

inside the shape of almost, too.

So let me be your parallel line—

forever near, forever true,

a love that doesn't need to twine

to be a love that's real, that's mine,

that's ours, in whatever form we knew.

For joy can live inside the ache,

and beauty in the space we keep,

and souls don't need to touch to make

a bond that's powerful, and deep.

Perhaps we'll never meet, my dear,

but perhaps we don't need to—

two lines that ran the whole way here,

never one, yet never through.