Merging Faces
Acrylic on paper  40 x 50 cm
You move when I don’t. I speak when you blink. We never arrive at the same time, yet we inhabit the same outline. Isn’t that the secret? That we’ve always been two—stitched together not by agreement, but by proximity. Your cheek against mine, your breath interrupting my silence. You laugh with your mouth open while I trace grief behind the eye.
They say we’re one. That we must choose. But we never asked to be solved. We are not a puzzle. We are the tension between longing and retreat, between seeing and being seen. You wear color like armor. I wear it like surrender.
Sometimes I wonder if you remember the night we were almost whole. That flicker before we split again. The way our lips nearly met in understanding—not desire, not peace, just recognition. You looked at me like you knew I’d never stay. And I didn’t.
But I didn’t leave either. I stayed in the curvature of your glance, in the tilt of your knowing. You carry me like a ghost you never believed in, and I carry you like a wound I can’t stop naming.
We are not broken. We are just too much for symmetry.
Let them stare. Let them try to read our edges. We’ll keep whispering our shapeless truth beneath the noise.
We’ll keep living.