The Structural Integrity of Longing

I am an atrium of silence, a hollowed-out space where the wind drafts through the ribs of my solitude.
In this coastal sanctuary, the moonlight acts as a blueprint, tracing the outlines of who I was before we met—a series of disconnected rooms, each sealed by heavy doors and reinforced with pride.
You were the cantilevered balcony that reached out from my core, defying gravity to touch your world without collapsing mine.
Our connection isn't a brick-and-mortar permanence; it’s a delicate tension, a suspension bridge made of shared glances and whispered plans over late-night coffee in high-rise apartments.
My skin still holds the warmth of your proximity like heated stone under a dying sun.
I sit here on this jagged foundation, listening to the tide—the rhythm of demolition and reconstruction—knowing that while my walls are high, they were built with openings meant for you to occupy.
Healing is not about filling every room; it is about perfecting the geometry of our distance until the space between us feels like home.

Editor: Geometry of Solitude