Parallel Lines

Somewhere,
another version of me
leans forward,
falls through the night
like a broken star.

The river swallows her,
and the world adjusts;
a quiet recalculation
for the absence
where she once stood.

Here,
I breathe the air
she never tasted.
I touch doorknobs,
coffee, sunlight,
his beautiful face—
each small thing
that never reached her hands.

And I wonder
if she drifts there still,
a ghost in an empty room.
Or if she is simply
frozen
in a world
where I no longer exist.

Two lines
never crossing,
but close enough
to hear the echo
of the other.