I have a confession.
You still feel like home.
Even now.
After the silence,
the distance,
the weird way time stretched itself between us.
I keep telling myself it’s over…
but you still feel like home to me.
Not in a way that makes sense,
just in a way that won’t leave.
And I think that’s the part I can’t shake…
God…
I miss the version of us that almost existed
There’s a color we keep returning to.
Purple.
Not the kind you point out,
not the kind you explain,
the kind you feel
when the world finally exhales and goes quiet.
It shows up in different ways.
Sometimes it’s yours;
a bruised, royal weight,
the kind of purple that pulls the tide inward
and
demands you sit with the depth of your own heart.
Sometimes it’s mine;
a steady, lavender dusk,
the kind of purple that lets the light linger
without
demanding a name for the dark.
But most of the time…
it isn’t either of ours.
It’s just there.
Between us.
That same purple
stretching across the silence we’ve built,
across everything we almost are,
everything we keep finding again in the seams of the day.
And in those moments…
there’s no difference left.
No edges to hold onto.
No borders to cross.
Just one colour
moving quietly between us,
as if we were always
just two different shades of the same arrival.
