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You heard me—
didn’t You?
Before my breath remembered shape,
You were already in the room
beneath the silence.

Sometimes I wonder—
why do You knock
before the door forgets it’s closed?
Why so soon,
so loud,
so gentle?

I didn’t believe in these things—
not the wind that speaks,
not the hush that burns.
But You— You’re God!
You’ve always been different.
And I,
always unraveling
in the sound of Your name.

This fragment—
the one I’ve hidden
under bone and memory—
You held it like it was Yours,
whispered it back to me
in a voice that felt like mine.

I know—
Your clocks are not my clocks.
Your roads curve where mine end.
Still,
I ask.

But I remember
who You are—
how You turn present pain
into seeds
for futures I cannot see.

So take it—
this now,
this ache,
this unopened hour—
and write it
into whatever tomorrow
You’ve already dreamed.