There are ways of being lonely
that have nothing to do
with an empty room.

I learnt this
beside you.

Your shoulder was close enough
for my head to rest on,
but your heart was so far away
to hear my silent whispers

I began to notice
the little things.
How your replies
could take a whole afternoon
to cross the distance
between us.

I was always checking
the sky.
Would today be warm?
Would you reach for me?
Would I have to ask?
I hated that I had begun
to count affection
like coins on a table.

You were there.
That was what made it difficult.
your shoes beside the door,
your hand sometimes
finding mine in sleep—
and still,
there were rooms inside me
you never entered.

I kept telling myself
that love had seasons,
that people were not always
good at saying what they felt,
that patience was a virtue.
So I became patient.
Then more patient.
Then almost invisible.
There is a peculiar sadness
in becoming fluent
in making excuses
for someone you love.
You begin protecting them
from the truth
of what they are doing to you.

You never completely
withdrew.
You gave me enough
to keep hoping,
never enough
to feel held.

And hope can be
a beautiful thing,
until you discover
you have been using it
to postpone grief.
But love,
I learnt slowly,
cannot be the only person
doing the work.

There must be somewhere
for effort to meet effort.
Somewhere
for tenderness to return
from the journey.

Eventually,
I stopped measuring
the distance between us.
I measured
the distance between
who I had become
and who I was
before I started begging
to feel chosen.
That was the distance
I could no longer cross.

And there came a morning
when I understood
that being loved
and feeling loved
are not always
the same country.
And I had been living
too long
without a passport
to the second one.

Editor’s note: This poem later became part of the collection “Nothing About Me Was Wasted”.