Parallel Lines

We were always close but not quite there Like two parallel lines Destined to always walk side by side But never actually touch Friends Friends that know the way each other smell Or the way it feels to slow dance in each others arms Parallel lines Constant Never entertained in your arms Like a lover Always as a friend We rule the kingdom of the unspoken. We walk through the world like a couple, holding doors, sharing jackets, whispering secrets, but we hide safely behind the shield of our titles. Best friends. The word feels like a safety net and a cage all at once. I remember prom night so clearly. The venue lights were dimmed into soft blues and purples, and the opening chords of Ed Sheeran’s "Perfect" began to bleed through the speakers. You didn't even ask; you just held out your hand with that familiar, crooked smile. "Come on," you teased, pulling me into the crowd, "let’s show them how it's done." And for four minutes, the geometry of our lives didn't matter. My arms looped around your neck, your hands settled on my hips,and we swayed in a slow, heavy circle. You looked down at me, your eyes lingering a second too long on my lips, and murmured, " You actually look decent tonight." It was just a joke, just our usual playful banter, but the way your chest rose and fell against mine said something entirely different. We were acting out a script written for lovers, but reading it in the voices of companions. Later, away from the bass of the music, we found our usual sanctuary. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, your back against my bed, reading Russian literature out loud just to hear each other's voices. You stumbled over the long, heavy names in the text, and I laughed, nudging your shoulder with mine. "If you were a nineteenth-century lady," you murmured without looking up from the page, "I'd have fought a duel for you by now." My heart skipped, a sudden, frantic thud in the quiet room. You laughed it off, turning the page, but the air between us stayed charged, thick with the phantom possibility of us. We are experts at this dance. We lean in just enough to feel the warmth, flirting in code, teasing around the edges of a confession, then stepping back before the ice breaks beneath our feet. It is a beautiful, agonizing emotional tightrope. I get to have your heart, your late-night thoughts, your safest spaces, everything except your tomorrow. So I smile at your jokes, I sway to the music, and I keep our perfect lines exactly where they belong.