It's Complicated

Caught between almost and forever, where feelings are clear but the path isn't.

If my heart had a profile page,
the status would not read single,
nor taken.

It would sigh,
pause for a moment,
and choose:

It's complicated.

I know someone
who lives in the rooms of my mind
without paying rent.
Someone whose name appears
in conversations with myself
more often than in messages.

We are neither storm nor shelter,
yet somehow both.

Some days,
we are two stars
caught in the same constellation,
close enough to be drawn together,
far enough to spend years apart.

There are feelings
that arrive like certainty,
and circumstances
that answer like doubt.

The mathematics never works.

The heart says,
"Stay."

Life says,
"Not now."

Distance says,
"Maybe."

Silence says nothing at all,
which somehow hurts more.

And still,
there is a strange loyalty
to unfinished stories.

A refusal to close the book
when a single page remains unread.

So I carry the contradiction:
the affection without definition,
the hope without guarantee,
the goodbye that never quite becomes goodbye.

If you asked whether I loved them,
I would probably smile.

If you asked whether they loved me,
I would probably hesitate.

And if you asked what we are,
I would look at the sky,
at all the stars that seem to touch
from where we stand,

and answer honestly:

"It's complicated."