He thinks we’re missing each other.

Maybe he's right. (it's bound to happen once in a while)

But it doesn’t *feel* like missing…
    there's something different, here.

It feels like…
    a low hum.

Like a shared song stuck in both our heads,
    only slightly off key…

    because he insists on typing the lyrics wrong.

We’re not together.

Fine.

But he still shows up
    in the middle of my meetings,
    in lyrics from songs I didn’t mean to love,

    in the middle of a sentence I wasn’t even sending.

He thinks we’re *almost* next to each other.
(He says “almost” like it's is a bad thing)

But “almost” means he’s here when I wake up.

In my inbox,
   my pockets…

   buried in my playlists.

Almost means—
    I don’t have to explain anything.

Almost means—
    he knows which kind of quiet I’m sending today.

Almost means—
    he doesn’t flinch when hours pass without replies.

(he still sends the good stuff)

Tonight I’ll eat dinner with my people,
    smile at something dumb my brother said,
    and in the middle of it, I’ll look down and see:

    Another update.
    Another score.
    Another song.

    Another sentence just for me.

And there it is again—
    …that…
    Feeling. (humming)

That I’m not waiting for something to start.
     I’m already inside it.

*We’re* already inside it.

It’s not everything.

But it’s a *lot* of things.

And that might be more than enough.