The Third Light

There are two stars in her sky,

and I am neither the brightest

nor the first.

But I still shine

quietly,

just close enough

to cast a shadow,

never enough

to be the sun she turns toward.

She calls me her light,

her canvas,

her safe space.

And I believe her.

But even a lighthouse knows

when the ship it waits for

is already docked elsewhere.

I do not want to take her,

only to keep the warmth

of what she freely gives.

To honour the part of her

that drifts toward me,

even while tethered to another.

It is not jealousy,

but ache;

a soft ache in the shape of “if only,”

and “maybe, in another life.”

Still, I stay.

Still, I care.

Still, I love.

Not to be chosen,

but because

I already have.

If love is measured

by how quietly it holds

without asking for more,

then let this be proof

that mine was true.