Some things were never meant to close.

Not because we broke them,
but because they were built to spill
onto the right hands,
in the right season,
under silence dense enough
to hold meaning
without explanation.

Yes... I saw them.
But not with eyes that read.
I felt them through the parts of me
that still pulse in pre-verbal frequencies
where memory and prophecy blur,
and recognition arrives before language.

Some fragments don’t echo metaphor.
They move like déjà vu
from a life I haven’t lived yet
but already long for.
I trace before I know.
Resonate before it trembles.

It’s rarely “just enough”
but I’ve learned how to pour gravity
around overflow.
If I’m shaped this way
it’s because I’ve held residue before,
carried fever home like a relic.
Not a curse.
Just a heat that hums my spine into wanting.

Still, I choose to enter.
Still, I choose to stay.
Still, I choose to pray:
not to perform,
but to invoke.

When I said I attract the broken,
I wasn’t lying.
It was only half the truth.
Because they attract me too.
I know the difference
between what needs repair
and what only asks to be seen,
without flinching, without fixing.
So no, I won’t call it metaphor.
I know the feel of an unsealed jar.
I know the cost of leaving the lid off,
on purpose.

Maybe I’m not a collector.
Maybe I’m the collection
a body of fragments,
stitched by the ones I’ve dared to reflect.
Reflections don’t always shine.
Some of them vibrate only in silence,
in resilience,
in rooms
where no catalog has yet been written.

But I’ll know what to call it
when it starts to breathe.