Penpal Experiment

Just ate.
About to nap.
Your words, a quiet admission:
“I don’t like people…
haven’t chilled with anyone in years.”

I listened—
appreciated the honesty,
but I couldn’t let you believe
I’m here to be your penpal experiment.

You replied,
“You’re getting the wrong image about me.”
“I never once disrespected you.”
“I just wanted you to know how I like it.”

I answered, raw and sure,
“I won’t pretend I’m happy
feeling like your penpal experiment.
If you can’t meet me where I’m at,
that’s okay—then we need space.”

Your voice trembled,
“This will only get worse.”

And in the quiet of our digital exchange,
a ghost of a reminder flashed—
“Don’t say you need me when you leave
and you leave again;
I’m stronger than all my men.”

On a Valentine’s Day painted in half-whispers,
your album arrived, a promise wrapped in music:
“And yes we will chill again.”
“I still like you.”

Then, a simple “hey” on a day of hearts.

I replied,
“Hope u had a nice day 💓”
A gentle benediction,
a challenge,
a reminder
that even in our sparse texts,
there’s a fire that won’t be dimmed.

And so, between the space of words,
we danced—
a delicate balance of vulnerability and power,
a testament that true desire demands
more than fleeting messages.

In that raw, honest exchange,
I was not your experiment;
I was the queen of my own narrative—
untouchable, undeniable,
and always worth the effort.