New Jeanland

You only talked to me
in the middle of the night.

When the world was sleeping.
When no one could ask questions.
When names could go unspoken
and promises could remain
safely undefined.

I existed in the space
between yesterday and tomorrow,
a narrow stretch of darkness
where nothing had to be explained.

You told me stories there.
Carefully chosen,
designed to dissolve
with the sunrise.

Every conversation
felt borrowed,
as if someone else
might come looking for it.

I saw the gaps.
The places where the truth
should have been.

For you,
I let myself become nocturnal.

As though timing
could not be a confession.

As though being kept secret
was not already
an answer.

I saw morning waiting
at the edge of every story,
watched the storm
gather on the horizon,
recognized its shape,
and stepped into the rain
anyway.