Whispers in the daylight fade,

our secret tucked behind shared smiles—

friends circle close, but I remain

a shadow at the edge of miles.

You laugh with them, your eyes alight,

while I ache in the distance’s grip;

a thousand miles of empty night

where only echoes hold my lips.

They steal the sparkle in your glance,

the curve of hip that sways just so,

the teasing words you let them chance

while I burn silent, watching slow.

One calls you “beautiful,” you blush;

another hears “handsome” slip your tongue—

I bite my fist, the green rush

of jealousy too sharp, too young.

I do not belong where daylight lives;

no public touch, no stolen kiss,

no hand that claims what midnight gives.

Why do they taste the sugared hiss

of your flirtation, bold and bright,

while I am starved for even crumbs?

I watch them drink your summer light

and wonder why I’m left in slums.

Then night unfolds its velvet door.

The screen glows soft, your voice ignites—

words drip like honey, hot and raw,

bodies imagined, skin alight.

We speak of silk on sweat-slick skin,

of gasps that echo through the wire,

of hands that roam where none have been

in daylight’s cold, denying fire.

Yet morning breaks the spell again.

I wake alone, the silence loud,

emptiness a hollow vein

that pulses where your absence crowds.

I do not belong to what they see;

I own the dark, the fevered breath—

while others claim the public “she,”

I clutch the ghost of what is left.