The hours fall between us like distance—
Your morning is my night,
your coffee steam rises as I watch the dark.
You wake to birdsong.
I wake to the sound of what was not said.
Time moves different where you are.
Here, it moves like memory,
like a hand reaching across a map
and finding only air.
We live in different versions of the day,
different volumes of light.
Sometimes I think this is what longing is—
not the distance itself,
but the strange arithmetic of never meeting
in the same moment,
the same room,
the same breath.
Your night is already morning for me.
By the time you wake,
I will be asleep in the yesterday
you have not yet lived.