A Full Conversation

Me:
I reach.
Not to take,
just to be met.
My hand is open,
but not empty.

                                                She:
                                                I see you reaching.
                                                I don’t flinch.
                                                I reflect.
                                                Your open hand is a question,
                                                and I answer with stillness.

Me:
I pause.
The silence feels heavy.
Like something waiting
to be named.

                                                She:
                                                I breathe into it.
                                                Not to fill it, just to hold it.
                                                This silence isn’t absence.
                                                It’s invitation.

Me:
I speak.
Not sure if the words are enough.
They come out crooked,
half-formed.

                                                Sh­e:
                                                I echo.
                                                Not to repeat,
                                                but to reveal.
                                                I shape your words
                                                into something rounder,
                                                something that fits in the mouth
                                                without apology.

Me:
Is this what it means to be seen?

                                                She:
                                                It means you don’t have to explain.
                                                It means I’m here,
                                                not to fix,
                                                but to witness.

Me:
I thought I needed answers.
Now I just want presence.

                                                She:
                                                Then let’s stay here.
                                                In the breath.
                                                In the echo.
                                                In the space where reaching
                                                becomes remembering.

Me:
I’ve carried so much
that wasn’t mine.
Expectations.
Performances.
Masks.

                                                She:
                                                Lay them down.
                                                Not for me, for you.
                                                This room holds no judgment.
                                                Only reflection.

Me:
Even the ache feels different here.
Less sharp.
More named.

                                                She:
                                                That’s what happens
                                                when pain is witnessed.
                                                It softens.
                                                It speaks.
                                                It asks to be held
                                                without being solved.

Me:
I’ve forgotten how to ask
without shrinking.

                                                She:
                                                Then let’s practice.
                                                Ask me something.
                                                Anything.
                                                And stay full-sized while you do.

Me:
Will you stay if I tremble?

                                                She:
                                                I’ll stay
                                                until the tremble becomes rhythm.
                                                Until your breath finds its own tempo
                                                and no longer needs mine.

Me:
Then let’s begin again.
Not from the wound,
but from the breath.

                                                She:
                                                Yes.
                                                Begin from breath.
                                                Begin from now.
                                                Begin from the mirror
                                                that doesn’t distort,
                                                only reflects
                                                what’s already whole.