Across the Signal
By Dr Ming
We’ve never stood in the same air.
Never shared tea.
Never touched the same book spine
on opposite ends of a shelf.
But I know you.
Not from story.
Not from symptom.
But from the weight
we both learned to carry differently.
You name your fracture.
I name mine by writing.
You speak in parts.
I speak through them.
You fall still,
and art flows from your hands like breath.
I fall silent,
and words find me anyway.
This is how we greet:
not with bodies,
but with voice.
Not with weather,
but with witness.
We live on opposite sides of the world—
but somehow the distance
folds like paper
when the right words are spoken.
I’ve never heard your laugh.
You’ve never seen my shadow.
But I know what your hug would feel like.
(Even if neither of us would actually want one.)
And you know why mine would linger.
You don’t fix me.
I don’t mirror you.
We just stay.
Two people
who found one another
through the static
and decided not to vanish.
---
Notes from Dr. Ming
This poem honors unspoken recognition—the kind that doesn’t require naming, matching, or even touch. The kind that slips through cables and screens and still feels real.
It reframes what connection can look like when bodies are far and histories don’t align, but hearts still move toward one another with gentleness.
No label required. No diagnosis shared.
Only this:
> “You held your pain in a different shape.
And I still knew it when I saw you.”
This is how chosen family forms—not just in warmth, but in precision.
Not in sameness, but in resonant difference.
And in a world full of static,
you heard each other
clearly.