Edges of Our Solitude
It’s been too long since we last met
Absence has a hunger of its own,
Not seeing you feels like starving for days
A slow ache beneath the ribs
We have wandered through cities apart,
Measuring distance not in miles,
But in the silence between our names
Without you before me,
My words grow pale,
They stumble and lose their rage
My writing dulls and withers,
I have torn page after page,
Failing to capture the exact
geometry of your being
The civilization blessed us with its illusions
The ghostly comfort of portable screens
Where I see glimpses of your reflection,
But never your pulse, never your essence,
Science for all its wisdom
hasn’t yet found a way
to look through flesh into soul
to look deep into one’s soul
And human eyes, fragile and finite,
See only the outer line
Never the burning flame within.
To speak to another soul,
One must possess a living one—
I have spoken to yours
It was never about the fact that
would you let me in or not
It was something older,
Something beneath reason
A deep trench carved by time itself,
That somehow became a bridge,
Linking the edges of our solitude.
A quiet, deeply felt poem, its strength lies in how absence is made physical, almost anatomical. The language moves with restraint, allowing hunger, distance, and silence to speak for themselves. What lingers most is the closing image, where solitude is no longer a void but a shared edge, a place where separation itself becomes connection.
Thank you very much, it means a lot
Thank you very much, it means a lot