What bleeds
without wound?
What rises
before it knows it fell?

I am
the echo of something never said,
the smoke from fires still dreaming
of stars.

Once, I mistook love
for a door.
Now I know
it was the house,
and I had only just
learned how to knock.

"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars."
So I kept my eyes full of sky
while the world pulled at my ankles.

They told me
to move on
I asked,
“But what if the road bends backward
to meet the heart again?”

I have worn regret
like a crown of thorns,
but let me tell you
even thorns soften
when touched by time.

What if the one you wait for
is still being carved
from storms you haven’t met?

What if you are
the answer
to someone else’s broken prayer?

I’ve walked through years
like forests with no compass,
but still
the trees whispered,
"There is more."

There is always more.
Even when the book closes,
another begins
in the margin.

"The wound is where the light enters you."
Then call me lantern
cracked, but burning.
Flickering with the faith
that love returns
in stranger forms,
at stranger times.

Who dares to love again
after the flood?

You do.

You
the riddle.
You
the answer waiting
in the next smile,
the next silence,
the next hand that doesn’t let go
when the lights go out.

This is not the end.
It never was.

Live like the universe
made you on purpose.
Love like forgetting
was never the goal.

Somewhere,
someone waits
not to complete you,
but to witness
your becoming.

And when they arrive
you’ll know.

You’ll know by the way
your name feels
safe
in their mouth
Spoken softly
on a
breeze.