The Edge of the Playground
We orbit like two moons
caught in the wrong gravity,
close enough to feel warmth,
too far to land.
His laughter cracks the sky,
and suddenly I remember
how it felt to run barefoot
through sprinklers at dusk,
when everything was simple—
or at least, pretendable.
He reaches for my shoulder
like it’s instinct,
like I’m a lighthouse
he doesn’t know he’s steering toward.
Just a brush.
Just a moment.
But my skin remembers.
We build forts from silence,
tents made of half-words and glances
where the world feels like
a secret worth keeping.
He says he’s looking for a map,
some way out of the thicket
he wandered into before
we started carving our names
into the bark of each other.
But maps don’t grow
from guilt and confusion,
and I worry his compass
was only ever a mirror
telling him what he wanted to see.
Still—
if this is a dream,
I let it hold me,
because I haven’t laughed
like this
in years.
Even if he never comes,
even if he never leaves,
I’ll be grateful
he stirred the wild in me
again.
