Never there

What I really want to know

is why I wound myself again and again,

belief rooted in inaction.

Heads or tails?

A coin I never catch.

In secret you hold me—

only—

but secrets sour in darkness,

and only what’s carried into light

can stand without shame.

So I lie here,

gazing at the ceiling’s constellations

of plaster and shadow,

counting the small bumps like wasted wishes,

telling myself

that if I wait long enough,

patience might unmask

the veil across your guarded heart.

But hope is ash on the wind,

a fragile story I weave

to soften the truth

I already know:

that when I wake and reach for you,

my hand meets only absence,

and you are—

and always will be—

never there.