I like her. Even knowing I can’t have her. She moves through me like smoke— filling every hollow, leaving nothing to hold. She will never see me that way. Never with the quiet care I have folded into my heart for her. And that is the truth I must carry. Cold. Heavy. Unchanging. Some things are not meant to be touched. Only watched. Like the moon— beautiful, distant, pulling at your tides while it belongs to no one. So I stand here, wanting what will never be mine, and call it acceptance. I sip my coffee, its warmth pooling in my hands, its bitterness blooming on my tongue— like the truth lodged in my chest. Above, the moon hangs, silent and untouchable, and I drink to it, as if swallowing its cold light could teach me how to live with what I cannot hold.