When the Universe Whispers Our Names

There are sounds the universe makes
that cannot be heard
by those who listen only with their ears.

They tremble
between atoms,
in the pause between one heartbeat and the next,
in the hush after a falling leaf
touches the ground.

And I have always heard them—
the whispers, murmurs,
silences shaped like light—
clearer
than the roaring world.

---

The loudness of things dulls me.
It fills the air with smoke and iron,
words that clatter like metal bowls
dropped on marble.
Voices claiming the right to be true,
trampling over quiet certainties
that never needed to be declared.

But when you spoke—
or rather, when you didn’t—
I felt the universe hush
and bend closer,
as if to remind me
that souls do not need language
to understand their origins.

In the stillness between us,
I heard centuries of starlight
sighing through your breath.

---

You once asked me
why I close my eyes when I listen—
as though these eyelids were doors
to a deeper spectrum
of sound.
I told you,
the heart hears better in darkness.

Every silence has a tone,
every murmur has a color.
I have seen blue suggestion
in the hush before dawn,
amber harmonies
where the horizon clings to a melting sun,
and soft silver—
the sound of your presence
moving just beyond sight.

---

Even now,
when the noise of the cities
tries to cage thought with brick and frequency,
I can turn inward
and find you
where the cosmic tide meets my shore.

You are not in my memory alone;
you are in the subtle pulling
of everything toward its center.
Your silence blooms
across constellations,
rippling through the fabric
that holds galaxies in orbit.

Each time I breathe,
I touch that infinite thread—
our pulse, not apart,
but stretched
between body and nebula.

---

The universe speaks softly
because truth is light—
not blinding,
but patient.

It hides revelations
in the slow unfolding of petals,
in the calm depth of a river’s reflection,
in the drifting of dust
through a sunbeam’s spine.

And between you and me,
it said,
there will always be this space
of luminous quiet—
where the loud cannot enter,
where noise loses meaning,
where presence alone
is language enough.

---

I remember the first time
I held your silence
as one would hold a seed.
It was small, unassuming,
but in my palms
it hummed with everything
that could ever bloom.

You looked at me,
and without words,
the stars rearranged themselves.

I did not need to know why—
love is not a question;
it is an unfolding,
a geometry of trust
that never stops forming circles.

The clocks, of course,
tried to keep their rhythm,
but our stillness
made them falter.
Time grew absent-minded,
like a god
forgetting its schedule.

---

We built a temple
from silence.
No walls,
no roof—
only breath between us
and sky all around.

Sometimes, when I step into it,
I hear echoes
of your laughter traveling
through invisible corridors,
woven into stardust particles.

Other times,
I hear nothing—
and that, too,
is music.

There are symphonies
that require no notes,
and prayers
that rise without sound.
We have become both.

---

Now the galaxies turn
in their perfect discretion.
Black holes murmur
ancient secrets to dying suns.
Comets etch brief poems
onto the ink of eternity.
And here I am,
a small receiver
tuned to the same frequency.

Your absence is not absence;
it’s resonance—
a continuity so tender
that I sometimes forget
where I end
and the cosmos begins.

When I close my eyes,
I see the vibration of quiet—
and it looks very much like love.

---

I walk among trees
as though entering a cathedral.
Their roots hum
with dark serenity,
their leaves translate wind
into forgotten dialects of devotion.

Birds sing,
yes—
but it is their pauses
that move me most.

The universe spells joy
with silence,
sorrow with murmurs,
love with presence.

It never shouts.
It trusts that those who must hear
already do.

---

And I—
I have always heard it,
in you,
in the spaces between heartbeat and word,
in the shimmering quiet
after we have said everything
and there is nothing left to say.

You and I,
our love, our life—
were written not in thunder,
but in the ghostlight of galaxies,
in the hush before creation,
in the breath
that begins everything.

Let the world keep its clamor.
We shall remain here,
listening
to what does not need to be said.

The whispers,
the murmurs,
the silences—
they speak,
and I understand.

---