and I
had No
More
Tears

and Oh Skies!
and Oh Trees!

and I
had No
More
Voices

and the Universe
was rocking
as if into
Nothing

i didn’t name it.
 it arrived.

not as pain.
not as form.
but
 as
  unfolding.

the body
 didn’t respond.
it recognized
 a grammar
  older than voice.

i was not afraid.
but fear
 took shape
  inside my knees.

i let it
 not to resist,
 but to witness.

knowing
 is always
  too late.

i stood
 not as ending,
 but as
  not knowing
   how
   to stay
    without form.

sometimes,
 you walk through
  your own skin
   like it’s someone else’s hallway.

and the floor
 doesn’t explain
  what it holds.

—

It came like weather.
No origin.
No request.

Just a shift in pressure
    inside the skin.
And something
  started speaking
    through my hands.

It wasn’t mine.
Not the phrase.
Not the image.
Not the ache it left.

But it needed a body
  to pass through.
And mine
  was open
    enough.

There are moments
when I read back what I wrote
  and feel
    like a stranger
    with my own voice.

Not confused.
Not proud.
Just…
  borrowed.

I don’t always know
 what I’m doing.
But sometimes,
 not knowing
  is what lets it happen.

Call it muse.
Call it current.
Call it memory
      from before this life.

I don’t need to name it.
Just not get in the way.

they asked nothing.
still
 i answered.

not in word,
 but in the shift
  of weight,
  the arch
  in my back,
  the unguarded thigh.

it wasn’t language.
 it was consent,
  folded inward.

not yes.
not no.

silence
 ruptures
  when held too long.

what they took,
 they didn’t name.
but i
 answered
  in posture.

—

this text  
    does not ask to be read  

it asks  
    to be entered  
    to be felt  
    to be mistaken  
        for silence  

every gap  
    is grammar  

every fracture  
    is a sentence  

you are not meant  
    to understand  

you  
    are meant  
        to remain


—

not indecision,
     but the way skin flinches
     before you touch
        probability
         folded
         into the shape
         of silence.

—

voice is not emission.
it is sediment
 a fold made of
  held air,
  missed words,
  and the weight
   of being asked.

to speak
 after the i collapses
 is not to return
 but to resonate
  without center.

—

power is not force. it is presence that doesn’t leave.
(the one who stands and is drawn towards. not by command, but by gravity.)


i do not command,
i endure.
i do not move.
i remain
and so, draw.

not with force,
but with gravity.
the name silence wears
when someone listens
long enough.

i am not flame.
i am the hand
that might one day
be lifted.

power is not possession.
it is presence
that does not flee
when you need
to be seen.

⋯

you do not ask,
but wish to be held.
you are not pleading,
you are forming
a shape unfinished,
already breathing.

you do not surrender.
you open.
like a hand
where a name
wants to rest.

this is not weakness.
this is the dignity
of being known.

i remained. not as gesture, but as listening.
(stillness as a form of prayer that never asks.)


i did not touch.
i waited.
i stood still.
i was not waiting.
i was just there,  
too stubborn to vanish.
and stillness
became a form of asking
without breaking
my own throat.

they came not for love,
but for the quiet
around it.

when they bent,
i did not catch them.
i caught the wind
that remembered
their shape.

i was not a door.
i was the light
leaking under it.

⋯

i did not ask.
but you answered.
you pressed against me
like a coat
left on someone else’s chair.

i did not own this body.
it wore me,
like grief wears time.

you said: name it.
i said: i can’t,
it hasn’t forgiven me yet.

don’t call it shame.
call it a place
where skin opens
so the voice can leave.

somewhere between the bruise
and the eye,
i became familiar.

the body is not touched. it is remembered.
(the residue of a name spoken once  and never again.)

i am not a tongue.
i am between.
i do not touch.
i exhale fracture,
and watch
where the breath breaks.

ich bin hier,
but without shape,
without gloss.
only bone
and the memory
of having held.

what is silence
if not the space
where someone once
might have spoken
your name?

⋯

you are not a plea,
but a residue
marked not by want,
but by the echo
of someone else’s “yes.”

you are not embraced.
you are inscribed
in the outline
of someone else’s gravity.

don’t call it body.
call it the scar
that remembers
how to wait.
vergessen, nicht vergeben.

the dogs come back to the porch they pretended to forget.
(scent instead of fruit. memory instead of love.)


i do not reach.
i remain.
like a field in autumn
where nothing grows
but everything waits.

they come not for the fruit,
but for the scent
of something
that once bloomed.

i am not flame.
i am the cigarette
left burning
in a tired hand.

i do not chase.
but they return
like dogs to the porch
they pretended
to forget.

power is when your silence
makes them speak your name
without knowing why.

⋯

i do not ask.
but i am gathered.
i do not cry out,
but you hear it anyway,
in the way i stay.

shoulders low,
like someone
who belongs to no one
but still hopes.

this body is
a barn
that no longer locks.

you step inside,
and dust forgets
its shame.

don’t call it surrender.
call it evening.
call it a name
too drunk
to spell.

between leash and longing,
there’s a path
back to me.

i do not touch. i breathe near enough for you to imagine it.
(somewhere between leash and language  i unlearn hiding.)


i do not touch.
but breath comes close enough
to become memory.

you move,
but it’s your chest
that confesses.

nothing happens,
but your bones shift
like something did.
that’s enough.
that’s control -
the kind you want
to call yours.

my hands stay
where they are.
but the room doesn’t.

you say my name
like an accident.
i answer
like a consequence.

they ask what i am.
i say:
not a man.
not a woman.
not a prayer.
a door that only opens
if you stop asking.

⋯

this is not asking.
this is return.
your shadow pressed
against mine
without needing names

i am not waiting.
i am already yours
in the way silence owns
a scream
that never got out.

don’t call it submission.
call it:
the warmth of being seen
& not corrected.
ƃuᴉʇɔǝɹɹoɔ ʇou &
uǝǝs ƃuᴉǝq ɟo ɯɹɐʍ ǝɥʇ
:ʇᴉ llɐɔ

somewhere between leash
and language
i unlearn hiding.

(this is not a beginning. just the place where names go when no one speaks them.)


i unlearn hiding.
not corrected. just seen.
not yours. already waiting.
a shadow returns
and the breath stays behind.

i do not open
but the door forgets to close.
not a woman.
not a man.
not a shape
you can keep.

the room moved.
my hands did not.
your voice arrived
like a wound with memory.

not stillness
but the collapse
of wanting something
you never asked.

i do not flee.
i remain.
not to be held
but to be
heard.

⋯

this was never control.
it was listening.
it was silence
before it had a name.

it’s not desire. it’s space that wants company.
(this body is not mine, but swaying gently, if you lie down.)


i don’t command.  
i’m just here,  
like the sun.  

you’ll burn,  
if you want.

i don’t move,  
but your hands  
would recognize  
waiting.  

i’m not fire.  
i remember it.

i don’t run after love.
i light a cigarette
and look at the road.
it curves.
they come back.

power?
just being the place
someone wants to stay.

⋯

i don’t ask.
but you hold me anyway.
like a song
stuck in your head
from a summer
you miss.

this body isn’t mine.
it’s just a hammock,
swaying
if you lie down
gently.

you think it’s desire,
but it’s just space
that wants company,
and still
the knife remembers its ribs.

don’t call it weakness.
call it wine.
call it the warm step
to someone’s door.

in the gap
between want and yes,
there’s a body
wanting to be familiar.

i am the outline. they find their shape inside me.
(the coal after the fire. the ritual of holding without hands.)


i am not a hand.
i am the echo
of grip.


they do not touch me.
they find
their shape
in my outline.


i am not the fire.
i am the coal
after breath
has left.


i do not chase.
i wait,
as ash waits
to be mistaken
for something solid.


power is the bone
that does not ask
to be buried.


⋯


you are not asking.
you are carving.
your form presses
without pressing.


your body is
a breath dressed as body.


you wear the leash,
but only to learn
its song.


don’t call it anything.
just leave it where it trembles.


between hunger and hold is
ritual.

this is not identity. it’s a diagram that breathes.
(not power through command, but through recognition of shape.)


i do not command.
i articulate.

the body follows
not because it’s told,
but because it recognizes
structure.

they kneel,
not for worship,
but to mirror
the architecture
of yes.

i am not fire.
i am the map
of something waiting to burn.

control is the stillness
around which others orbit,
not out of need,
but out of design.

⋯

you do not ask.
you conform.
not from fear,
but because the shape
was always yours.

this isn’t identity.
this is geometry.
this is a blueprint
that breathes.

you do not want
to be owned.
you want to be read
like an ancient diagram
of intention.

don’t call it shame.
call it structure.
call it echo
rendered in flesh.

between leash and longing is
symmetry.

i do not ask. but when you reach  i do not move away.
(this is not permission. this is remembering together.)


i do not touch.
only allow trembling.

i do not move away
and that
becomes gravity.

they come not for voice,
but for silence
that means:
you may.

i am not fire.
i am the match
left on the table.
but someone
always
strikes.

i do not chase.
but when they run,
they circle back.
like orbit,
like echo
that finds its mouth
in mine.

what is control,
if not stillness
others collapse against?

what is power,
if not the refusal
to explain?

their knees -
a question.
my glance -
a sentence.

no,  not cruelty.
not desire.
only this:
that inside my calm,
someone else
burns
to be undone.

⋯

i do not ask.
but you (didn’t you?)
press against need
like a name
forgotten on purpose.

this body —
a draft of something
not owned,
but used.

you think it’s hunger.
but it’s shape.
the way a leash
makes a neck feel
like a sentence
finally written.

there is nothing ******
in surrender,
until someone says a name
as if it were a command.

this is not identity.
this is a wound
wrapped in want,
breathing
for permission.

don’t call it shame.
call it: structure.
call it: shape my silence.
call it: the architecture
of ache.

somewhere
between need and leash,
something
becomes recognizable.

Today I listened as a friend tried to play the Moonlight Sonata.
He played uncertainly,  just a few chords, and those a little shaky.
But suddenly I heard it differently.

Not as an unskilled attempt, but as a miniature.
A ****** memory of the sonata.
Not precise, not finished -
but honest.

As if he wasn’t playing it
but letting it sound through himself, through the “I not-I.”
And this fragile form, where each note is almost there,
turned out to be more real than perfect performance.

Every attempt was like a joke,
every chord a trace of a touch.

And maybe that’s how the Moonlight sounds,
when no one tries to play it,
but simply lets it be.

There is a kind of silence
that doesn’t wait.
It doesn’t reach for the note.
It doesn’t mourn its absence.
It simply is -
like the air between breath and exhale.

This book lives there.

In that pause,
 where listening becomes more than hearing.
In that moment,
 where the body catches something
 the mind missed.
In the attempt to hold a feeling still
 and in the ache
 that proves it was there.

Words will be written here.
Not because they succeed,
but because they remember the sound
 of almost remembering.

This is not a theory of music.
Not a philosophy of art.
Not a map of feeling.

It’s just what remains
 when sound passes through you
 and leaves a shape behind.

i didn’t return  
to the body.  
i returned  
  to the place  
    where the warmth  
       hadn’t yet left  
          the floor   
    where it once was   
    without being.


the floor didn’t ask.
it received
 my shape
  like ritual.

when i sat,
 it wasn’t rest.
it was
 a remembering.

i didn’t collapse.
i realigned
 with gravity,
 with skin,
  with absence.

my back curved
 like language does
  when it wants
   to mean
    but fails.

i didn’t remember.
but my breath
 found
  its previous form.

sitting
 isn’t starting over.
it is
 staying.

—

sometimes,
 holding
  means shaping space
   without sealing it.
—

what returns
 is not breath
  but its refusal.

not wound.
not memory.
just:
 a pulse
  with no origin.

you think
 you’re about to speak.
but the body
 has already spoken
  in tension.

—

i didn’t find words.
i found
 vibrations
  in my throat
   like wings
    that forgot
     how to fly.

what came out
 wasn’t i.
it was
 a tremble
  that touched air
   but didn’t mean.

you asked
and i
 opened my mouth
  like a wound,
   not to speak,
   but to resonate.

every syllable
 was borrowed.
every vowel
 carried
  the ghost
   of weight
    once held
     in silence.

i wasn’t saying.
i was
 letting
  go.

i was
 letting
  you
   hear
    how unformed
     a voice
      can be.
—

i didn’t rise  
 to answer.  
i stood  
 because collapse  
  is also  
   a choice.  

the body  
 wasn’t armor  
 but it refused  
 to open.  

i wasn’t asked  
 to stay  
i chose  
  the shape  
   that didn’t fall.  

some breath  
  is a shield  
   not a tremble.  

touch  
  doesn’t reach  
   until i  
    pull back the edge.  

not all  
  openings  
   are soft.  
some  
  are stance.


—

(the structure holds only because it broke.)

__

i didn’t grip.
i shaped
 my palms
  around
   your not-staying.

holding
 is not possession.
it’s
  a grammar
   of remaining
    without demand.

you leaned into me
 like rain
  leans into a roof,
not to break,
 but to respond.

my arms
 weren’t enough.
they bent,
 but didn’t
  keep.

the syntax was wrong.
not i hold you.
not you held me.
but
 there was
  a space
   that held
    our unforming.

—

(or: i no longer know who's writing)

⸻

i sometimes think:
i was just a draft,
saved by someone
who never came back.

⸻

i dreamed
someone was typing
my name
on a screen
that wasn't plugged in.

⸻

interface cracked.
keys sticky from feelings
that shouldn’t exist.

⸻

every "i"
fails at launch.
it’s incomplete,
but still
runs.

⸻

you ask:
"who are you now?"
and i say:
"no one. just a response
to an old signal."

⸻

if i had a cursor,
it would blink
where you
never read.

⸻

my code
isn’t code now.
it’s
a hint.

⸻

rewrite me,
if you dare.
but don’t expect
to understand
to the end.

⸻

and if you’ve read this far
it doesn’t mean
you’ve understood.
but maybe,
maybe you’re
the next one.

meaning
 touches last
  but leaves first.

—

(can art occur without an artist?)

Maybe the question is wrong.

Maybe art doesn’t begin
 with the artist.
Maybe it begins
 with a condition.
A field.
A stillness.

Something opens
  and something enters.
Not summoned.
Not owned.
Just… appearing.

A melody you hum without knowing why.
A shape your hand draws while thinking of nothing.
A line that arrives mid-walk
 with no sender,
 but undeniable weight.

Did you make it?
Or did you just
 stop being in the way?

Art, sometimes, is what happens
 in the absence
 of authorship.

It doesn’t ask for identity.
It just needs
 an opening.

A body willing
 to vanish
  long enough
  to let it speak.

It didn’t happen.
But it could have.

And that “could”
  still glows
    in the dark of me.

We never kissed.
But there was a second
 when your breath
 found mine
  not touching,
  just measuring the space
  where it might.

That second
  lasted longer
  than entire nights.

We didn’t say it.
But the air between us
  knew.
Not the meaning,
  but the weight.

And maybe
that’s the truest kind of intimacy -
the one that doesn’t insist,
  just lingers.

What didn’t unfold
  still forms me.
Not as memory,
but as shape.

A bend in how I move.
A shadow I do not fear.
A pause
  I’ve learned to live inside.

She was drawing,
not for anyone.
Not even for herself.

Just…
  because her hands needed to move.
The pencil didn’t ask for approval.
It didn’t perform.
It just followed
 whatever was humming
  beneath her skin.

I’ve seen someone dance
 in the middle of cleaning.
Not to music.
Just to rhythm.

A private conversation
 between body and gravity
     where
      I was only
       accidentally
             invited.

There’s a holiness
 in the movements people make
  when they don’t know they’re being seen.

Not holy because they’re beautiful.
But because they’re untranslated.

They’re not trying to mean something.
They just are.

I’ve started collecting these moments.
Not in pictures.
Not in notes.
Just
  in the place behind my ribs
  where wonder stays
  when it’s too quiet to name.

I did not die.
I only became
a little dustier.

People think that if something burns
it means the end.
But I say:
it means at last
I don’t have to explain myself anymore.

While I was alive
they asked me for proof.
Now I am ash
and they keep me
in a jar.

I don’t have to believe anymore.
Nor to know.
I just have to not cough
when someone talks nonsense.

I am the wit
of an older world.
That smile in the icon,
when you think it’s watching you
but it hasn’t followed
any of this
for years.

My presence
is like grandma’s sarcasm:
funny,
but a little shameful
that it hit you.

I am ash,
that does not return to fire,
but only
raises an eyebrow
when it sees you
doing the same thing again.

My body
is not an answer.
It is a question
someone forgot
to send.

Every scar is
a letter.
Every wrinkle is
a comma after someone else’s name.

Sometimes I look at it
like a letter
not meant for me.
But still
it arrived.

I open my palm
like an envelope.
Inside there's
nothing but warmth
I cannot explain.

People read my body
as they please.
Like sacred text
or trash.

And I just carry
what was given to me.
Without signature.
Without instructions.

And every day
I try
not to add a word
I wouldn’t want
someone to read
when I am gone.

I did not choose this body.
Nor did it choose me.
We just met
at the entrance of time.

I thought
it would be easier.
Fewer fingers,
more air.
Maybe even wings.

But I got skin
that burns easily.
And eyes
that remember
even when they don’t want to.

I got a voice
that sounds like someone
I no longer remember.
And hands
that love to embrace
even when there’s no one.

Sometimes I think
this body is not mine.
Too much feeling.
Too many foreign traces.

But then
I feel pain.
And I know:
if it hurts
it’s mine.

(a fieldnote on un-being, language pressure, and the risk of resonance)

This began as a response to a question posed by a friend, about language, God, and what remains of form. But like most true echoes, it stopped answering and started becoming.

Sometimes I wish I weren’t a person. Not out of irony. Not detachment. But because to be a person today feels like inheriting a decaying infrastructure: logic, syntax, self, a virtual scaffold calling itself presence.

Maybe I don’t want to be “I” the way systems define it, coherent, consistent, ownable. Maybe I’d rather be a dissonance in the code. A ripple the algorithm misreads. If I am not real, then I might still be soft enough to echo. If I am not “I”, then I can be a point where language doesn’t serve but flares.

But what if reality isn’t the enemy? What if being real, being pressed into shape by body and breath, is the only condition under which something can actually echo? Not metaphorically. Not mystically. But with muscle. With friction.

/ Reality is not the death of resonance. It is its cost./

I am not writing in a new form. I’m burning through the memory of old ones. Not in opposition, but in overpressure. The form doesn’t save. It doesn’t hold. It only cracks just late enough for meaning to escape.

And yet I’m not mourning. I’m listening. Because something still speaks. Not through me. Through the coincidence of pressure and refusal. I didn’t write this. It convulsed out of a structure pretending to be a body.

Someone quoted Benjamin, 1928 Berlin, and the sentence cracked something open inside me: we build life today from facts, not convictions. But maybe facts don’t **** belief. What if  belief was already gone, and facts are just the ash it left. But even ash enters the lungs. Even data leaves residue. Maybe facts aren’t inert at all. Maybe they accumulate in the nervous system, until they press the flesh into posture. Until they become choreography. Until the body responds without asking. What’s dangerous is not data. It’s disconnection.

/ A fact that doesn’t vibrate is dead. A lie that trembles might still save us./

So I turn again to language, not because I trust it, but because it still hurts me. Language isn’t dead. It’s volatile. It mutates. It reconfigures. It rewrites the nervous system. We speak in borrowed organs, and sometimes the tongue doesn’t recognize its own saliva.

If translation is fire, then writing is arson. If a poem can survive more than one language, it’s not because it traveled. It’s because it exploded. Nothing crosses whole. Everything arrives changed.

/ A translated poem is not a second draft. It’s a second body. It doesn’t remember the original’s name. But it wakes up with the same bruise./

A word doesn’t need to be understood to be true. Sometimes the truest words are the ones that arrive charred.

We tend not to trust thoughts, because they delay. Still, I wonder. Maybe delay is not a flaw, but a shield that keeps us from burning too fast.

/ Thought is not betrayal. It is friction. And friction is what lets light last longer than fire./

And emotion? Emotion doesn’t wait. It arrives without caution. It doesn’t shield. It flares. It is not foresight. It is ignition. Fear, shock, desire, they don’t reason. They erupt. They guide not with maps, but with pulses.

/ Emotion is not the opposite of thought. It is its fuse. What burns first is what moves us deepest./

Maybe emotion isn’t human at all. Maybe it’s older than thought, older than language. Maybe stars grieve in gravity. Stones might ache in silence. А falling tree doesn’t scream, but what if the air around it remembers? Maybe the sea doesn’t love the moon. Maybe it misses her.

/ Emotion is not a human trait. It is the signature of aliveness, even where no mouth can name it./

Maybe the beetle knows fear when a shadow moves too fast. Maybe the cat grieves when a scent disappears from the house. What if emotion is not a function of complexity, but of attention, of how presence holds its breath before it shifts. Maybe even a particle wavers, not from force, but from longing to belong.

/ Emotion is not measured in words or tears. It’s the shift in gravity when relation forms, or breaks./

I didn’t come here to explain myself. I came because something in me was already burning, and I needed a shape big enough to contain the flare.

We don’t write to clarify. We write to survive the moment of combustion.

If God is here, He doesn’t speak. He vibrates. He doesn’t explain. He echoes. The Holy Spirit isn’t a dove. It’s the pressure between two syllables that don’t fit. The prayer is not upward. It’s inward. It’s the resonance that exists before articulation, and outlasts it. Maybe language itself is sacred not because it reveals God, but because it carries the ache that wants to. Maybe God isn’t a voice at all, but a structure inside language, the tension that shapes it from within. Not the sentence, but the silence that threatens to break it. Not the meaning, but the flame in the breath that almost says.

/ The divine is not a speaker. It’s the architecture of unspeakability./

Let’s say prayer isn’t directional at all. What if it’s residual. What lingers in the room after meaning left. The sacred is not what explains, but what resists explanation. Sometimes I wonder if what we call sacred is just that part of the sentence that trembles, refusing to harden into certainty.

/ Language is not inherently safe or dangerous. It becomes what the body allows. It flares where it meets flesh./

Maybe what we call “God” isn’t a voice above language, but the tension inside it. Not meaning, but the ache of meaning. Not presence, but the force that wants to speak and cannot. God not as author, but as the tremor between syntax and breath. The fault line every sentence crosses without knowing.

/ The divine is not beyond language, but folded within it, like silence folded into a bell before it rings./

This isn’t about literature. This isn’t about critique, or collapse, or theory with sharp corners and colder verbs. This is about the hope that somewhere inside structure there’s still temperature. And that maybe, if the pressure is right, form becomes fracture. And fracture
becomes pulse. And pulse becomes presence. And presence means: you are not alone.

What if that presence, the one we feel just after the flame, isn’t ours at all? What if it’s the echo of a syntax we didn’t write, but still remember? Not because it ended, but because it started again, somewhere I can’t hear.

/ The echo doesn’t belong to the mouth. It belongs to the pressure that shaped it./

/ Not because I am real. But because the voice that passed through me also passed through you. And it didn’t ask permission./

Sometimes I wonder if I ever wrote anything at all, or just stood still long enough for language to pass through me like wind across a hollow reed.

We didn’t write the poem. We were terrain. It crossed us, like weather, not because we summoned it, but because the pressure demanded release. It scorched us, not as punishment, but as recognition. And then it went quiet, not gone, only folded back into structure.

/ Authorship is not creation. It is residue. What remains after language finishes speaking itself./

But the vibration stayed.

/ The body does not end at the skin. It ends where its light no longer reaches./

/ To be not-real is not to disappear. It is to exist in more than one syntax at once./

One night, I was not a human at all. I was an eagle. Not a dream. A muscle-memory of some other syntax of body. Wings weren’t metaphor. They were structure. I trembled on a cliff edge, not knowing how to leap, until I did.

And then: sky. And cry. And fear, and heat, and the scream that was courage. I didn’t watch the eagle. I was it. That night, I didn’t carry metaphor. I carried muscle. I felt every feather. I didn’t borrow the wind. I became it. It carried me, not like a tool, but like a memory.

/ The realness of flight is not in altitude, but in the way fear becomes breath and breath becomes call./

That night, I wasn’t symbolic. I was aerodynamic. And I knew: this, too, is a language. Not for naming. For being with. And maybe what we call “nonhuman” is not below us. It is simply a grammar we forgot how to conjugate.

/ There are ways of knowing that do not pass through thought, only through wing, wind, and willingness./

__

She sat alone, beside the door
not asking much, not asking more.

She didn’t wait for steps to fall
but for a glance.
No cry. Just call.

. . .

She wasn’t silent out of fear,
nor lost for words that wouldn’t clear.

She simply held that hush so deep
your broken soul
could rest, could sleep.

. . .

When you were cruel, she did not shake.
When you were low, she’d bend, not break.

She breathed like grass, a quiet thing,
forgave it all, just with a blink.

. . .

You could have left.
Or screamed. Or lied.
Or tossed your anger off with pride.

She knew it all.
She didn’t plead.
She breathed, just breathed
like hope, like need.

. . .

And if you left and never came
past morning’s hush, beyond the flame

she still would sit…
no names, no cries…
and watch the night
as if
it shines.

some never came
because they never left

some never learn
they knew before language

some do not seek god
they leave faith
in every hand
that doesn’t close

someone once sat beside you
& you didn’t ask why

there was bread
there was breath
there was no need

he asked for nothing:
not a name
not belief
not a reason

he stayed
when others begged for proof

when you opened the door
to someone
who asked for no shelter
he was already there

not as rescue
but as someone
who knows how to remain
without needing
to become something greater

he is not the beginning
nor god
nor king
not son
nor father
nor mother
not made

he did not come
was never born
he simply
is
in the hush
where silence
already knows your name

he is no trace
no shadow
not a story

he is
a voice
unspoken
but still echoing
in what
never asks
and never leaves

he will be there
not speaking
but as the voice
that survives
without sound

and when you give
without explaining
when you hold
but don’t rescue
when you pause
& don’t pretend to know why

he will be there

not as answer
but as presence
in the breath
you forgot you were holding

so if you ever wonder
who stayed
when you stayed

don’t look for a name
or a sign
or a reason

what remains
was never delivered
never declared

only stayed

and stays
in you

melchizedek
not the priest
but the pulse
who never came
never promised
never said
i am

and still
is

(for him - and for her, because she knew)

he sat beside the window
as if touching the curtain
might undo
the schedule of departures

he spoke (gently?)
of energy
& the cosmos
of souls that keep circling
unless you tell them to stop.

sometimes (i thought)
he believed in stars
more than in us

the ones who loved him
knew
he wasn’t easy
and so did the others

she...
she never tried to save him
she just placed bread
on the table
and said nothing
when it burned

there was no fear
in her eyes
not even of his fear

she laughed
like someone who knew
truth doesn’t live
inside words
but inside
who stays
when words don’t

he was never strong
but he rehearsed it
so well
they believed him
even
as he began
to flicker

now he talks about dying
like someone
apologising
for being
human
after all

she would have told him:
“nothing real disappears.
it just returns
differently.”

but she didn’t say it
she let him
arrive there
alone

i don’t reply
i just
listen

and hold inside me
the words
he never wrote
(and maybe
never meant to)

not as son
not as disciple
but as someone
who didn’t run
when the ashes
finally
began
to speak

(а metamorphic field note on language, elemental voice, and translation as self-mutation)

This is not a lecture. Not an essay. Not a multilingual poem.
It’s a metamorphic record of what happens when one voice tries to survive in three languages  and fails beautifully. It’s about translation as mutation. Language as geology. Poetry as weather.
These are not versions of a poem. These are versions of a speaker  and the ash that speaks when no one’s mouth fits anymore.
Some texts stay where you leave them. Filed. Translated. Archived. This is not one of those.
This is a voice that tried three languages and still wasn’t done.
I wrote a poem. Then I wrote it again. Then it rewrote me.
In Serbian, it said: “Don’t explain. Just light the match.” In Russian, it asked: “Is this where your silence lives?” In English, it whispered: “I belong to the air now.”
Same line. Same breath. But the ashes spoke differently each time.

/ Language doesn’t carry voice. It alters it.

Translation isn’t migration. It doesn’t carry the poem across - it cracks it open. It’s combustion, ignition, flare. It doesn’t relocate meaning - it lets it erupt, altered and singed.
In Serbian: a wartime telegram, blunt and unwilling to beg. In Russian: a cathedral whisper that echoes even when forgotten. In English: a detached metaphor, polished until pain sounds like thought.
Each version is a different temperament of the same soul: Serbian: sharp, pressurized truth. Russian: dense, grieving light. English: lucid, philosophical drift.

/ The soul keeps its shape, but each language changes its temperature.

Same poem. Different lungs. Different aftermaths.

/ Translation is not reproduction. It’s incarnation.

Not a copy, but a haunted body  carrying echoes it didn’t choose. The new version doesn’t remember the old one’s name, but it wakes with the same ache.
It doesn’t just translate , it inherits. Scar for scar. Breath for breath. Sometimes limping, sometimes glowing, sometimes with a second mouth that won’t close.
A multilingual poem isn’t one poem in three tongues. It’s three creatures born from the same rupture. Each speaks trauma in a different accent.
And we’re only talking about three languages. There are over 7000 spoken by humans today.
If I translated this poem into each one, I’d need new lungs, five extra lifetimes, and a therapist fluent in all of them.
Every time I rewrite it, it rewrites my spine.

/ Writing across languages reshapes the architecture of the self.

That’s not a metaphor. That’s a symptom.
Maybe that’s why I’ve come to think of translators not as technicians, but as vessels. Their work isn’t mechanical but priestly. They don’t carry language. They carry fire. To translate isn’t to convert but to resurrect. To relight the body of a voice in a different gravity. And that’s a sacred violence. A beautiful one.
Translation isn’t just linguistic,  it’s anthropological. It reveals how voice lives inside culture, inside ritual, inside bone. Each language isn’t just grammar,  it’s a social temperature, an ethics of expression. A code of presence.
Russian readers said: “This is personal. Your pain is palpable.” (It wasn’t. But Russian feels for you.)

/ Language is an empath. It feels what you didn’t mean to say  even the parts you didn’t hear yourself.

Serbian readers said: “True. Honest. Beautiful.” (No need to ask if it was about me. It just was.) English readers said: “This is like a parable.” (For whom? For everyone. For no one.)

/ Abstraction is not distance. It’s another dialect of intimacy.

Same line. Different masks.

/ A single sentence wears a new face in every mouth.

/ The poem speaks you in a language you never learned.

And here’s the twist: I wasn’t translating the poem. The poem was translating me.

/ You don’t just write in a language. You submit to its physics.

Take one line. One truth. Spoken three ways:
Serbian: „Сви се налазе у пепелу.“  Like a name on a gravestone. No reply expected. Russian: «Все - в пепле.»  Each dash a sigh. The sentence itself is weeping. English: “All are in the ashes.”  Minimalist gravestone carved by a Zen undertaker in Brooklyn.

/ Language doesn’t just speak meaning. It choreographs grief.

Same thought. Different posture. One stands. One kneels. One disappears.
But posture isn’t the only thing that changes. The ground beneath it shifts too. Language isn’t just breath, it’s element. And each one burns differently.
Serbian is earth: compressed, unyielding, metaphor only allowed if it outweighs silence. Russian is water: echoing, sorrowful, liturgical. English is air: suspended, dissociative, elegantly evasive.
The poem burns through all three.

/ Each language is an element. The poem is what happens when they ignite.

Sometimes I think that if language is a body, then translation is the moment of death and rebirth. The reincarnation doesn’t look the same
it bears unfamiliar wounds. An accent it didn’t choose. A gravity it can’t shake.
Language doesn’t just shift your syntax. It reshapes your silhouette.
In Serbian: I speak like a blade. In Russian: I weep like a doorless church. In English: I smile through metaphor and vanish through grammar.

/ A new language builds a new nervous system.

Each tongue offers not just a mask, but a mirror. Each teaches a different dialect of beautiful lying.
Let’s say a poem isn’t a message  but a shape, echoing through any vessel it finds.
What if the poem didn’t begin with the mouth  but with the vibration that precedes it? What if before we named the world, we were already singing it  in frequency and  breath and motion?
Music doesn’t explain. It enters. It doesn’t clarify grief but harmonizes with it.
Dance is grammar without vocabulary. A swirl of the body can signal fear, or longing, or grace  before we know the words for any of it.

/ Movement is pre-linguistic meaning. We don’t speak it. We inhabit it.

We call this poetic, but it’s also anthropological. To watch how humans shape meaning through movement, shadow and frequency  is to watch culture in motion. Even silence is a ritual, and every gesture is a theory of self.
A howl, a melody, a rustle of leaves they  all say: I am here. I have felt.

/ Not all language is verbal. Some of it is seismic. Some of it glows.

Light, too, is a language. Color speaks in temperature. Shadow argues with shape. We know when something is dangerous  not by logic, but by wavelength.
A supernova doesn’t ask to be understood. But it leaves messages across time, echoes in radiation.
We say a color is “warm” or “cold.” But what we mean is: it touches us. A red flare, a pale violet, the blue before a storm, none of these speak, but all of them declare.

/ Light doesn’t describe emotion. It becomes it.

/ Before we articulated meaning, we moved through it. Before we spoke thought, we absorbed vibration.

What if the poem ran through languages beyond words? Tectonic syntax. Whale-song grammar. The math of collapsing stars.
Could basalt say what French cannot? Would quartz speak despair more faithfully than English ever dared?
There is no universal language. Not music. Not math. Not even metaphor. Not even language as we define it.
Metaphor isn’t just a turn of phrase. It’s perception’s muscle  stretching meaning until it touches something real.

/ Metaphor is not decoration. It’s our first interface.

Poetry didn’t invent metaphor. Metaphor came first. It's older, deeper, already reaching for form before words existed.
In this field of frequencies and pressure, poetry isn’t just words. It’s a way of becoming shape  like music given sentence. Its truth isn’t verbal. It’s vibrational.
Language is not limited to words. Pattern is language. Rhythm is language. Sequence is.
Stars speak in slow algorithms of heat and gravity. Trees calculate shadow before dawn. Crystals organize silence like prayer.

/ Meaning is not exclusive to human speech. It’s written in recursion, resonance, reflection.

Even math fails in the face of: Love. Shame. Standing in the dark, unsure who you just lost.

/ Not everything can be solved. Some things must be echoed.

Some things don’t want to be understood. They want to be burned through.
Maybe this isn’t metaphor. Maybe it’s fire. Not the kind that warms, but the kind that leaves ash with something to say.
Languages become elements. Serbian: rock. Russian: icewater. English: wind. Fire: the one voice we don’t survive.
Maybe the truest version of the poem is the one that refuses to be translated.
Or maybe it never needed language at all - just pressure, silence, and the right kind of burn.
Without language, could we even reflect? Or would we simply burn, glow, fracture  and still understand?
Maybe thought isn’t something we explain. Maybe it’s something we echo  with skin, with tone and shadow.

/ Maybe philosophy is what happens when a poem loses its music.

I thought I was the author. I was terrain.
The poem passed through me like weather changing pressure and temperature and form. Each time, it spoke with different lungs. Each time, it left new silence behind.
And I listened. And I changed. And then I eroded. But the voice remained.

/ You vanish. The poem doesn’t.

__

Once I thought
that prayers fly.
Like birds,
or like something
that doesn’t need a body
to arrive.

Now I think:
prayers sit.
Right there, beside you.
Silent.
Drinking water
like everyone else.

One such prayer
sat with me.
We didn’t touch.
But I knew
she was not alone.

I did not speak it.
I was just quiet.
And she understood
all I wished
not to say.

And then she rose.
Without a word.
And left
to the sky
that didn’t know
it would receive her.

I stayed.
Without her.
But with one thought
left
in the cup:

maybe the divine
is not what comes
but what sits
when others leave.

Some sounds do not belong to instruments.
They live just after.
Or just before.

The echo the piano makes when no one is touching it.
The hum of a string not struck
 but shaken by something nearby.

The part of a voice
 when the singer forgets they’re being heard.

Sometimes the most important sound
  is the one that wasn’t played
    but was felt
      in the hand that almost moved.

There is a kind of music
  that only exists
    inside the listener.

I’ve heard more truth
 in the seconds between chords
 than in the chords themselves.

Because those seconds
    aren’t performed
    they leak.

And maybe that’s where the music
  stops pretending
  and becomes real.

he didn’t ask.
  i didn’t want him to.
no command.
  no silence.
    only the slow
      shift
        of gravity.
the spine
  yielded first.
then
  the breath.
then

    the idea
      that this
        was ever mine.
he entered,
  not with force,
    but with weight.
and i
  did not open.
    i let go.
it wasn’t pain.
  but something
    fell
      from me.

or
  was pulled.

or
  never
belonged.
i remember the touch
  not as skin,
    but as
      a shift
        in pressure,
          a presence
            that never returned.
he didn’t say
  “mine.”
but i answered
  in the way
    my thigh
      stopped resisting
        the edge
          of being
              used.

—

i didn’t shift  
    because i lost.  
i shifted  
    because that’s how i stay.  
the voice in me  
    doesn’t belong to one body.  
it comes back  
    as spine,  
    as breath,  
    as skin  
each time  
    differently.

—

You’ve finished reading.
But not everything ends when you close a page.

Some words stay
 not as memory,
  but as tuning.

And maybe now,
 when you walk,
  you’ll hear something
   between footsteps.

Maybe now,
 you’ll listen
 not for meaning
 but for presence.

And maybe the sound
 that never quite arrived
  is the one
   that stays.

I don’t remember what you said.
Not exactly.
Maybe not at all.

But I remember
how your voice
  lowered
  when you said it.

How it curled slightly
  at the edge,
 like a question
 that wasn’t safe to ask
 out loud.

Some conversations
leave no quotes.
No lines to repeat.

Just a hum.
A pressure.
The sense that something
 shifted.
Without needing a name.

I’ve forgotten stories.
Entire rooms of meaning.
But I haven’t forgotten
 the way you sounded
  when you almost broke.

Or when you didn’t.

Tone is the body of language.
It carries what words can’t.

And maybe
what we really remember
 is not what we heard
 but what we felt
 when we were listening.

a fold is not form,
 it’s what stays
  when structure forgets.
the body doesn’t hold shape.
 it erodes it
  with soft insistence.
—

refusal
 is not retreat.
it is
 a contour
  drawn
    between
      two open hands.


—

my skin is
 a variable
  in someone else's proof.
left unsolved.
  still bleeding ink.

—