Blízhe

There's this word in Russian—Blízhe.
I write it with a French twist,
as if adding a little charm would make it simpler.
It means to be close, closer than the shadow of breath,
like a page held against another,
no space for secrets.

In my mind, there’s no word more tender for love.
Telling someone, "I’m Blízhe than your thoughts."
Blízhe—can you feel the gravity of it?
How it bends time, softly,
pulling moments closer,
erasing the silence between.

But the trick?
We say it like a reflex, so smooth,
while we build walls with every step,
convincing ourselves that distance is safer,
and proximity—a hazard.
We hunger for nearness and then sprint away,
claiming the world has taught us to fear
the sharpness of Blízhe.

I’ve murmured it in the pauses between us,
when the air felt too thick to breathe,
and I thought—if I say it,
maybe you’ll feel what I mean.

Blízhe—it’s more than love.
It’s standing in someone’s echo
and finding no need to fill the void.
It’s the silence just before a breath,
the space where words gather strength.

And still, I ask—
are we ever truly Blízhe
when we’re always one breath away,
afraid of the closeness
that lays everything bare?