Across twelve parallel worlds they run,
Twelve mirrored tracks beneath one sun,
Twelve quiet versions spun in space,
Twelve slight revisions of one face.
In one, we’re small and fur and bone,
Soft-pawed beneath a moon of stone,
Curled against a window’s seam,
Breathing in the same small dream.
In one, we’re strands of ocean green,
Twin filaments in briny sheen,
Rooted deep where light grows thin,
Swaying with the tide within.
In others, we ignite the sky,
Two comets crossing, fierce and high,
Etching vows in streaks of fire,
Unashamed of our desire.
But in this parallel design,
Your orbit never bends to mine.
Hands draw close, then hesitate,
As if restrained by tempered fate.
We meet in shallow, measured ways,
Exchange our calm, our careful phrase.
We speak of weather, passing trains,
Of distant wars and harmless pains.
No undertow beneath the skin,
No breach that lets the ocean in.
We walk the edge of what could be,
And leave untouched the deeper sea.
My longing folds itself from sight,
Pressed between the day and night.
It never rises to be named,
It stays composed, almost contained.
And you remain a closed domain,
A quiet room without a stain.
I never learn what thoughts you hide,
What silent planets shift inside.
Perhaps within this chosen strand
I am no force that moves your hand
Not gravity, nor guiding star,
No axis pulling where you are.
Only a filament of green,
Half-present, half unseen,
Drifting through your private sea,
Alive, but slight in memory.
In other parallel timelines spun,
We might have burned instead of run,
Let language fall without disguise,
Let truth stand naked in our eyes.
But here we keep the volume low,
Two linear paths that barely slow.
We cross once in borrowed light,
Then separate into the night.
If twelve worlds turn beyond this frame,
Let others dare to speak our name.
In this restrained reality,
You pass unchanged by trace of me.
And I remain
Like seaweed in a tempered sea,
Not anchor
Not necessity.