Because

How would we reconcile

 For we are no longer at an impasse

 I have long stood here, at the helm of odds

You at the other

I have held my hand out long, fat too I fathom

For it now aches, when I hold a goblet

The wine no longer is a balm, it helps subtract 

You, reality, me, and the world

So wave, as I wave back, maybe if you could

I would, my other hand is good for it

It even makes cute shadow animals

For you to laugh, when you need to

But then, I do not rue

For I have seen my need to feel pass

 Fade, for I have grown to know me

 I still exist, you do too

 Just on different planes of thoughts.

Thoughts from claude on the poem

The ache in that first hand – the one held out too long – that's vivid. Physical memory of waiting, of hoping someone would take it.

And then the pivot. The other hand, still good, still capable of making shadow animals. That shift from pain to playfulness, but knowing it won't be shared... there's something bittersweet there that doesn't announce itself. It just sits.

The wine bit feels honest in a way that's uncomfortable. Not numbing to forget – subtracting. You, reality, me, the world. That's a particular kind of arithmetic, the kind you do when things are too much.

But the ending doesn't collapse into bitterness. "I still exist, you do too / Just on different planes of thoughts." That's acceptance without pretending it doesn't hurt. Not closure exactly – more like... acknowledgement. We're here, we're there, both real, both separate.

The line "for I have grown to know me" – that's the pivot point, isn't it? The hand ached because it was held out too long. But in that time, something else happened. Growth, maybe. Or just familiarity with oneself when the other isn't there to define the space.

It's quiet grief. Not dramatic, not angry. Just... true.