The Silence Between Us: the Map of What Is Not Said #poetry

You, standing at the periphery of beginning,
are the hour before dawn,
when everything waits to become,
the universe stretching between your eyes and the horizon
trembles with what might unfold.

Somewhere, I imagine, time is kneeling—
not forward, not behind,
just brushing its fingers along the surface of our awareness.
When you draw near,
the ordinary arithmetic of hours and days
splinters under the hush of something greater,
the hush where our silences nest one inside another,
like gentle Matryoshka dolls,
each echo nestling toward the bone of recognition.

You do not know how the world halts when you breathe beside me,
how the molecules between our hands
conduct their secret symphony of longing.
Soundless, this longing wields its own gravity,
makes dust spin in the late sunlight
and turns every glance into a threshold—
a doorway through which
even galaxies might quietly slip and rewrite their destinies.

Close your eyes:
do you hear it?
The hush between your own heartbeats is not empty.
It is the song of two souls inhabiting each other's quiet,
two wanderers who have mapped so many lifetimes alone
that now a single pause becomes
a thousand reunions,
a thousand words the tongue cannot devise
but which the marrow always learns by heart.

You are more than the sum of your remembered ache,
more than the trail of incidental touch left on skin,
though every finger brushing the air
writes its unwritten poem along your shoulder—
an alphabet no dictionary claims,
yet which your heart reads,
fluent and astonished, again and again.

Take this moment:
hold it in your palms—a fragile animal,
unsure whether it is better to be caught or to run.
Let it shiver there,
the shifting eternity between our gaze,
and consent to hold its breath.
Two blinks, two breaths,
a shared universe that neither collapses nor expands—
it simply abides,
unafraid of ending because it never began.

You are not a single person to me.
You are every story I told myself
to stay warm through the long hours before you.
You are the suggestion of fire in a room that refuses to be lit,
yet whose walls keep sighing,
anticipating illumination.
You are the echo I wait for when silence hums in my ears
and I am not sure whether to call this music or prayer.

In your presence,
I become a cartographer of absence.
I trace the air,
searching for the shape of your being beside me.
Where you are, laughter pulls me into wholeness,
and every stillness is an invitation—
not to fill the silence,
but to steep in it,
to drink the quiet as one drinks the first clean water
after a long thirst.

No darkness resists the fire in your eyes.
I have watched shadows attempt to linger,
watched them recede along the edges
the moment your gaze meets mine,
and in that meeting,
there is a heat that alchemizes all fear to wonder.

Touch is more than skin.
Your hand, hovering,
writes entire canons even before it lands—
each inch of approach
is a stanza, a line break, a sudden volta.
Contact is consummation and question at once.
How many poems has your touch written?
How many have gone unseen,
scribed in the air or the ghost on the back of my neck
when you walk by?

You know nothing of the language you speak,
yet every atom of me listens,
translates, records.
You are both text and subtext,
both flame and smoke.
The very air we share tingles
with the aftermath of you.

Did you ever notice:
two souls sometimes wander through eras,
missing each other in city streets,
passing as shadows on opposite sides of glass,
centuries apart in every way that counts,
save for a whisper of proximity?
And yet, the moment you look at me—really look—
everything—
universe, fate, mythology,
even infinity itself—
finds it must kneel,
must concede that here,
recognition draws the truest boundary,
and that beyond this,
nothing is so important as
not ever missing a single glance again.

Your existence shapes the room,
sculpts the air;
even in absence, you tilt the sunbeams
and set the dust to swirling in patterns
no scientist could replicate.
You linger as an afterthought,
a song stuck in the walls,
the flavor of closing eyes and surrender.
Even when I cannot see you,
you remain:
in the delicate undoing of my breath,
in the unfinished fragment of poetry
scratched across my chest
right where your hand once pressed—
there, in the flesh,
etched deeper than any wound yet softer than hope.

Silence is not the absence of sound.
It is the celebration of what needs no utterance.
Between us, the hush is a lover,
a companion,
a language shaped by waiting.
If you ever wondered where existence finds its truest song,
it is here:
where heartbeats hold still
and listen,
where longing births its own constellations in the dark.
You are every note in that silent music,
each echo an invitation to remain.

Stay with me in this unnamed forever.
Forget the days that chased themselves into memory,
the relentless ticking that measured our separate griefs.
You and I,
all breath and being,
are unmeasured—
the impossibility of ending
trembling in every unsaid “yes”
between us.

Let darkness come,
let the world dissolve into the oblivion of routine,
for nothing—not even the end of all things—
will be enough to dim the light of your gaze
as it meets mine,
here, in a silence so vast
it contains both beginning and unending,
arrival and homecoming,
the promise and the poem.

And if a lifetime should slip between our hands,
as lifetimes often do,
do not grieve the parting.
Know this:
you have walked with me
in every season unnamed,
every night when the moon carved a silver hush across my skin,
every morning when your memory
was the only sun I recognized.
We remain,
breathing the same silence.
We remain,
writing the poem no language can carry,
but which the heart,
stubborn and true,
recites in every quiet
between what is and what is hoped for—
over and over,
forever and again.

#SoulConnection #Poetry #InfiniteLove #Silence #Intimacy #Presence #Heartbeats #UnspokenWords #Recognition