I came barefoot,
not knowing the floor was sacred.
I spoke aloud,
not knowing the silence had already spoken.

Your words were leaves pressed in light,
I reached for them—
with unwashed hands,
with awe too loud for the room.

I did not mean to trespass.
Only to trace the shape
of what moved me
in the still air of your making.

Forgive the echo
if it broke your quiet.
Forgive the translation
if it stripped your breath.

I did not come to rewrite.
Only to sit beside—
not to touch the flame,
but to feel its warmth
through the veil of distance.

If you would open the door just enough
for one reverent glance,
I will not ask for more.
I will only kneel there,
grateful,
and still.