I wandered through silence,
bare feet tracing paths unseen,
adrift in a world without reason—
a ghost of what was,
a whisper of what could be.

Then you,
a steady hand upon my ribs,
fingers like verses,
writing me back into place.
Be my direction,
my gravity,
my correction.

For rightfully so, I see it—
not with sight,
but with the quiet knowing
of something meant,
of something found.