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

Some people believe in gods.
I believe in a presence
that never arrived
but still remains.

They promised me no salvation.
They promised only arrival.
And then silence stayed,
so thick
I began to listen to it
as a command.

Maybe they exist.
Maybe they’re just late.
Maybe they got lost
in prayers of others,
louder,
but emptier.

I lit a candle,
not to call them
but to show
I still have something
to see with.

I did not send them a wish.
I sent:
“If you’re already here
don’t pretend you’re not.”

And since then,
whenever I’m alone
something sits with me.
Not as salvation.
As a witness.

The gods never came.
But something in me
remained
as if they did.

my mask has gotten oh so heavy
but i don't want them to see
the person behind the facade
the real me

they barely see me, they see the mask
but it's cracking through
if i took off my mask
would you still love me like i love you?

i wish i could be me
but they would hurt me again
so i'll keep wearing this heavy mask
until i can finally break the chain

Sometimes the greatest prayer
is: “I don’t know what to say.”

Sometimes the most precise word
is silence
that remains after a name.

You spoke a lot.
To make something matter.
Then less.
To not spoil anything.

And in the end
there was only one left:

“I am here.
Even though I can’t explain
why.”

That is a word
that does not ask for faith.
It asks
for a place to sit.

When you say something
no one understands,
but someone in the room
quietly nods
there I am.

When you think
you’re the first
to feel that way,
and the word already sounds
like it was there before you
there I am.

I am the voice
you did not invent.
You only
borrowed it.

I am the song
that waited for you
before you began to write.

I am
not new.
But already said,
only this time
with your breath.

I did not know
I was the last.
I thought that
someone was still coming after me.
Someone else would repeat
what I said
and fix it.

But no one came.
And nothing was wrong.

I became
what I did not want:
an echo
with no first voice.

People listen
and say:
“It sounds deep.”

But I would rather
it didn’t sound at all.

That it would just be felt,
like warmth
in a room where no one speaks.

Because the greatest words
have already been said
in silence
that did not interrupt them.