I keep laying out blueprints
for things I’ve already built.
Not because they need fixing,
but because I can’t stop seeing
the empty spaces between the lines.

Everyone else points at the structure;
the beams holding,
the rooms lit,
the whole thing standing
exactly as intended.
They call it solid.
They call it good.
Some even call it beautiful.

But I’m still at the drafting table,
pencil hovering,
convinced I’ve missed something vital;
a brace, a joint,
a measurement I should have checked twice.
The kind of mistake
only I would notice,
the kind that feels enormous
even when it isn’t real.

It’s strange how the gaps
always glow brighter than the work.
How the mind can turn absence
into a kind of mirror.
How you can build and build
and still feel like the apprentice
who snuck into the workshop
when no one was looking.

And yet the structure stands.
People walk through it
without hesitation.
They trust it.
They trust me.
I’m the only one
still waiting for the walls to fall.