Why the dance with paper figures,
this ceaseless shuffle of the deck—
when the one who saw your face
never turned away?
Why this noise, this need for novelty,
when the card that knows your name
is a smooth, warm stone in the cold creek of the deck,
waiting?
The screen lights up.
Fingers tap.
But the soul is a dormant seed,
curled beneath the ribs
That will not stir for any frequency
But the truth.
The one who held that note
offered her heart like a tendril in devoted hands.
A steady whisper:
She saw you. And the card was yours.
And still—
the shuffle continues.
So let it.
Let the wind take the chaff,
The wheat remains.
Let the morning rearrange the false mirrors. Once again.
Yet the card below does not vanish.
It simply does not care for the game.
It is a stone keeping warm
wrapped in the soft glow of its own light,
unbothered by the static of the shuffle.
~Remaining true~