We do not orbit the same sun,
yet every six-month ellipse
our two cold moons
scratch the same black sky
and, for a breath,
trade gravity.

He is neon, bassline, club-door flash—
I am kettle steam, curtain-drawn,
page-corner folded twice.
The maths says we should ricochet,
but the maths forgets
the quiet click of parallel loneliness
aligning like unseen gears.

No fights, no fuss—
just the slow untide:
his need for crowd-surge,
my need for hush,
both of us polite enough
to let the other keep the need.

We meet in the doorway,
not inside either room.
He shines his phone-light
on my unread metaphors;
I wrap a hush around
his restless ribs.
We leave the overlap
exactly as we found it—
ajar.

Then drift,
no shipwreck,
only the hush re-hushing,
neon re-neonning,
each of us certain
the other is somewhere
living well,
until the small pinch

(like a distant satellite
correcting course)
whispers: time.

And once again
we occupy the same breath
of vacuum,
a love that never dares
to test the air of everyday—
a love that lasts
because we never try
to make it stay.