I’ve loved across coordinates.
Until the coordinates started mapping me back.
Thin, folded, patient, like something archived.
At first it was a trick of time,
Minutes plus messages.
Proof of life disguised as affection.
Then the lag arrived.
And my heart, too literal for fiction,
mistook delay for verdict.
I failed in several languages:
love, work, sleep, conversation.
Even the room of myself
hung a sign: temporarily unavailable.
The mind drafted its quiet theorem:
if this continues, I won’t.
So I changed the equation.
I left the comfortable shape
that no longer fit,
learned a new grammar for staying,
Let failure become measurement, not identity.
This place taught me slowness.
How light arrives by degrees.
How a kitchen can mean survival
without declaring home.
When the world stopped,
everyone met the silence I already knew.
Some called it despair.
I called it recognition.
I rebooted in small steps.
Books, breath, lists,
until color returned to the screen.
Now the distance is smaller.
I can stand inside my life
without asking permission.
When the world heals,
we’ll walk out laughing.
But for now, this is enough:
I am here, with me.
Let me love this version.
Not as a quote,
but as repetition.
again and again,
to the horizon,
and quietly beyond it.
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