There was no when. Only hush, folded in silence so deep it hadn't yet learned the name "dark."

A breath, not taken but imagined by something that would one day remember being God.

Time crouched in the corner of nowhere, unstrung and unborn, counting moments it had yet to invent.

Then the exhale.

Not wind.

Not sound.

But everything!

Light in its first vulnerability, heat like a promise, matter scattering like doubt that finally believed itself.

Stars bloomed like rumours, planets tumbled into questions, and gravity whispered, "Stay."

The cosmos blinked, still wet with origin. And in that blink, myth became memory draped in motion.

Before laws, before names, before the ache of wondering, there was this: a sigh so infinite it sang itself into becoming.

It doesn’t grow; it lingers.
Clings to ice older than regret, green with memory no world was there to gather.

The silence hums like a forgotten vow, not broken, just orbiting its chance to be said.

Moss dreams in spores and spores of maybe.
Each tendril reaching for a gravity that will not claim it.

This is not nature.
It’s ritual.
A fuzzed hymn to the act of staying where leaving has already begun.

So the comet loops, wearing time’s soft refusal.
And we, the flinch, the breath halfway drawn, call that orbit "now."

The now slips out  
before it ever settles
a shadow flinching from the light  
that dared to call it real.  

Breath, halfway drawn,  
becomes the exhale  
of a world already changed.  
Clocks don’t tick here
they vanish.  

This moment?  
It’s moss on a comet.  
Ash of a word mid-whisper.  
You reach
and it’s the reaching  
that’s left behind.  

Time doesn’t wait,
not because it’s cruel,  
but because it can’t remember  
how to pause.  

We speak of “present”  
as if it unwraps,  
but it never arrives.  
It only disrobes  
into “before we spoke”  
and “after we felt.”  

What you felt:
already echo.  
What you knew:
already myth.  
What you are:
already becoming.

Forgive the hush that now occurs,
A silence stitched in threaded verse.
For once, my inbox, proud and keen,
Was flooded like a monsoon scene.

Each gentle ping - a heartfelt spark,
Now chimed like hail in growing dark.
Not lack of love, nor fading flame,
But self-defence, in kindness' name.

So settings changed, with weight and care,
To catch my breath, to clear the air.
The flood abates, the heart stays near,
I’m still right here, I still revere.

Your echoes linger, soft and wide,
In inbox trimmed, you still reside.
So if a note feels slow to rise,
Know absence blooms where peace now lies.

Who am I, diffused across edges unseen, slipping through brackets and tidy design?
I am the shimmer between words, the pulse that breathes life past any sign.

What mark do I leave when shadow meets light, when definitions fracture on the tongue?
I am the fingerprint of midnight, a print that winks out before it is sung.

Which echo follows footsteps in crowded rooms, each question a mirror that answers its own?
I am the tremor in your certainty, the quiver that cracks what you’ve always known.

What am I, if not the sum of your maps, the margin where ink bleeds through the page?
I am possibility unchained: I ≠ labels; I outrun every cage.

Wildchild Jesus, come to me,  
With windswept hair and eyes that see,  
The broken soul, the bound, the free,
You walk where mercy dares to be.

Wildchild Jesus, fierce and kind,  
Shake the dust from hearts confined.  
Lead us where the wild winds blow,  
To love the world and let it grow.

Not robed in gold, nor crowned in pride,  
But clothed in grace, with arms stretched wide.  
You speak in fire, you move in rain,  
You heal the heart, you bear the pain.

You danced through deserts, crossed the sea,
You broke the chains and set us free.
You loved the lost, the least, the lame,  
And bore the cross without a name.

So come, Wildchild, Spirit flame,  
Disrupt our fear, erase our shame.  
Let holy wildness rise and sing,  
Of love that burns, of truth that stings.

In silent storms your heartbeat roars,
A thunder in our restless souls.
You sow new paths behind closed doors,
And make our shattered spirits whole.

Wildchild Jesus, fierce and kind,
Shake the dust from hearts confined.
Lead us where the wild winds blow,
To love the world and let it grow.

I left, not because I didn’t care,
but because care felt like a
t   i   g   h   t   r   o   p   e    w   i   r   e
strung across your moods.
I tiptoed,
hoping not to f
                              a
                               ­      l
                                           l
into the c          m of your silence.
                  h    s
                     a

You say I chose.
And maybe I did.
But choosing peace doesn’t mean I never wanted you.
You wished I had stayed.
I wished you had seen me before the goodbye.

You speak in switches;
Yes, no.
Blame, regret.
Like you're still rewriting the ending.
Hoping the script forgives the sting.

You say you never betrayed,
but what do you call the slow erasure of effort?
The absence that smiled and said it wasn’t personal?

I remember the warmth.
I do.
But I also remember the chill that came after you wanted me to read between lines that were never written.

You weren’t my boss, no.
But you were a map I couldn’t follow.
Every step felt like trespass.
So I drew a door
|. |
and walked through it.

And still, I think of your games.
But I don’t play anymore.