Everything is fine.
Really, it's nothing—
just skin
catching
on the teeth
of silence,
a slow unraveling
like threads
whispering themselves loose
from your fingertips,
softly,
softly,
until suddenly
my reflection slips
and my face is yours,
smiling
through clenched teeth,
so quiet
that we both pretend
not to hear
the skin
writhing beneath
the calm.
You say something sweet,
and it feels like
someone rearranging
my spine
in slow motion,
vertebrae
stacked
like porcelain teacups
waiting
to topple,
waiting
for gravity
to finally speak up
about how uncomfortable
it's been.
Yet everything remains perfectly
still.
We laugh,
but laughter sounds
like fingernails
on the mirror,
scraping away
the fog—
you,
me,
our sameness
thinning,
stretching into
something unrecognizable,
the shape of
resentment
hidden
in warmth
and genuine joy.
But it's fine.
Everything is fine—
see?
Just a scratch,
just a slow
pulling apart,
just
a delicate tension
in the seams
of our closeness,
just the quiet
echo
of our bodies
becoming
slightly less
familiar.
We're smiling—
aren't we?
You see,
it's just skin.
Just the quiet undoing of a seam
that never belonged there
to begin with,
a thread snagged
on the edge of something sharp—
not a wound,
just a correction,
just an adjustment,
just a pulling apart
so that it fits better.
That's all.
Nothing here hurts.
The air simply licks exposed nerves
like an old friend with cold hands,
and when you smile,
I recognize the geometry
but not the warmth.
It's fine.
It's fine.
I think I understand.
Somewhere in the distance,
in a place that used to be closer,
your laughter warps—
dragged sideways,
drawn thin,
the Doppler shift of something
that used to stand still
but is now speeding away.
I reach for you
and my fingers brush
only the illusion of you,
the afterimage,
the lingering warmth
of a ghost pressed into fabric.
You are still here,
but also not.
You are still you,
but also not.
Nothing is wrong.
It's just the physics of it all,
just a little stretching,
just a little warping,
just space-time bending
in the presence of something
too heavy to hold,
too dense to let go.
And if my voice sounds different,
if it echoes strangely
in your ears—
don't worry,
it's just the light bending,
just the sound traveling
in odd new shapes.
Nothing has changed.
Nothing is wrong.
This is still us.
Isn't it?
We're smiling—
aren't we?
