Not The Same, But Together

Not the Same, But Together

They did not match.
Not in language, not in food,
not in holidays, or the music they turned up
on tired afternoons.

One prayed with silence,
the other with song. One ate with hands,
the other with silver.

One grew up near ocean salt,
the other in dust and dry wind.
They laughed at different things.
Grieved in different tones.

Held different stories
about what made the world turn.
And still, they sat across from each other.

Not to become the same,
but to stay open while staying themselves.

They traded recipes.
Not to cook perfectly,
but to taste what the other grew up calling home.
They told stories. the other didn't always understand.

But they asked questions, and listened again,
and laughed when the words fell
into a shared bowl of meaning.

They did not blur. They stood beside,
not inside, each other.
No one melted. No one erased.

But something new emerged;
not a blending, but a binding.
A friendship, not in spite of,
but because of
the long stretch between their worlds.

They were not mirrors.
They were windows,
each looking out on something
the other had never seen,
and now could not live without.