Thoughts of you linger—
a subtle smile, a sideways glance,
a childhood story of mischief,
a black and silver watch
that no longer keeps time.

Still, it hugs your wrist—
as if time itself forgot to move.

The wait—
a heavy ache
inside my chest.

What am I doing?
We’re not Frida and Diego—
tumultuous, violent love
painted in Mexico.

Inescapable, these thoughts persist.
I catch my breath:
the allure of touch,
of promises kept.

Friends, we say.
Maybe.

I can belong only to you,
but you will never
belong only to me.

And now I’m left deciding
if that is enough.

The miles stretch out between us,
but it's more than distance
driving us apart.

I could stand outside
banging on your door—
but I don’t know where it is.

And anyway,
you never let me in.

You could be my muse,
and I could be your …
silence.