We met at the edge of a battlefield,
Hearts armored, but fingers reaching.
The silence between us was thunder,
Louder than all the things we weren’t teaching.

You said, “Let’s meet in the middle,”—but where?
Between your fire and my sea,
Between your fists and my folded wings,
Between the storm and what’s left of me?

I offered softness—you saw it as slight.
You gave control—called it love, called it right.
But what of the bruises we call boundaries?
What of the nights I cried out of sight?

A room with two chairs still leaves one cold,
When one keeps shrinking to fit the mold.
I bent till I broke, whispering “peace,”
But my voice became ash, my breath a lease.

You carved your truth in unyielding stone,
I scribbled mine in skin and bone.

Now I sit in the echo, quiet and raw,
Wondering if “halfway” ever kept the law
Of hearts that beat with uneven might
Or if we both just lost the fight.

So I ask, not in bitterness, but in ache,
Not in anger, but for memory’s sake:
Is there actually enough room for compromise,
When one soul drowns and the other survives?