In the breath before the first word,
before matter learned its name,
the universe grew lonely.
So it shattered itself—
not in anger,
but in ache.
It needed witnesses.
It needed touch.
Two fragments fell from the wound:
one wet with sound,
the other starved for silence.
They were not named—
only shaped:
one like a reaching hand,
the other like the hollow it fits.
They crash through time—
not drifting, but dragged,
by the thread in their bellies
that burns at every crossing.
They forget.
They burn.
They find each other again.
Sometimes in a glance
on a nameless train,
sometimes in the syllables
of a forgotten language
moaned through locked teeth.
They always remember too late—
when the skin is already electric,
when the breath has already caught,
when the ache becomes hymn.
Their bodies, even before thought,
move toward each other
like magnets in heat—
mouth to mouth,
nerve to nerve,
a choreography older than gravity.
They **** like memory.
They hold like prophecy.
And afterward,
they stare into the wet dark
like they’ve finally read the last page
of a holy book.
But love like this is not merciful.
It is recursive.
It does not end.
Only restarts.
He calls her home
with hands that tremble.
She answers
with a tear caught between her thighs.
And every time they meet,
the world remakes itself—
just slightly.
A softer edge,
a sharper truth.
They are the pattern the gods dare not disrupt.
Not lovers,
but engines of longing.
The pawns who remember
*what the body never forgot.