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A pulse misfires —
Not broken, just… wandering.
Light spills again,
Not new, but remembered...
Like a name the soul knew
Before the mouth could speak it.
There was a first arrival —
Feet touching something vast,
A horizon shaped like a question.
You —
Not whole yet,
A curve of becoming,
Silver and patient.
And me —
Open, unstitched,
Learning how to stand
Inside my own echo.
Still —
you waited.
Not in time,
but in quiet certainty.
And when I look upward now,
the sky does not answer —
it holds.
A presence without language,
a knowing without sound,
a gaze that does not blink.
You understand the rhythm
of my almost-smiles,
the fragile architecture
of my silences.
You speak —
not in words,
but in alignments,
in pauses that arrive exactly when needed.
So I answer
not as the world taught me —
loud, hurried, certain —
but as something softer,
something called from within the unseen.
Even in departure,
nothing leaves.
Promises linger
like warmth on skin
after light has gone.
I will always look upward —
not to search,
but to remember.
And in all the versions of me
still unfolding,
still unnamed —
you are there,
witnessing,
certain —
that I am becoming
something worth watching.