There are mornings
that arrive without light
only a trembling in the air
as if something unseen has been touched
and the echo has nowhere to go
but inward
it gathers in the quiet
like breath waiting to become voice
yet never quite crossing over
into something that can be spoken
I do not interrupt it
I do not try to understand
I let it surround me slowly
like a memory returning without a past
It does not explain itself
it does not offer meaning
in the ways I have been taught to receive
instead
it lingers between things
in the soft fracture
between silence and sound
I begin to notice
how it moves without direction
how it folds into itself
like a river that has forgotten the sea
and yet continues
In a language
There is a ringing now
so distant it feels internal
as though the body itself
has remembered a sound
it once knew before words
it does not arrive loudly
it does not demand attention
it simply exists
and everything else
adjusts around it
the air listens
the sky pauses
even the smallest motion
seems to soften
Made of bells
Color follows
not as a burst
but as a slow unfolding
a quiet spill
across the edges of perception
it does not belong
to any flower
any sky
any single moment
it moves through everything
like warmth through still water
and I feel it
before I see it
It engulfs me
This is not color
as the eye understands it
this is color
as the heart receives it
it settles into the unseen spaces
where thoughts dissolve
before they become clear
it touches memory
without asking permission
and suddenly
everything feels closer
softer
unfixed
as though the world
has loosened its hold on certainty
In hues of pink
Then the shadows begin
not behind me
but around me
multiplying
stretching
breaking into forms
I cannot contain
each one carries something familiar
and yet incomplete
they flicker like reflections
in water that refuses stillness
I try to follow one
but it dissolves
into another
and another
Making shadows of myself
There is no center now
only versions
each one moving
with its own quiet rhythm
each one holding
a fragment of something
I almost recognize
they do not compete
they do not replace
they coexist
layering over one another
until distinction becomes impossible
and I am no longer certain
which one is closest
to what I call “me”
Thousands and thousands of times
Something shifts
not outward
but deeper
as though the expansion
has reached its threshold
and begun to return
the vastness does not disappear
but it gathers
like a sky folding into dusk
without losing its depth
and within this gathering
there is a stillness
I had not noticed before
waiting
In this totality
It does not arrive as a form
or a voice
there is no face
no outline
nothing I can point to
and yet
it is unmistakable
in the way the air settles
in the way the light hesitates
before leaving
in the repetition
of everything that has unfolded
as though every fragment
was never separate
only circling
I find you
Not once
because once
would suggest an ending
and this does not end
it returns
through every echo
through every color
through every shadow
that refused to remain singular
you are there
not waiting
not arriving
simply present
Over and over again
I begin to understand
that nothing here
was accidental
not the sound
not the color
not the breaking
not even the confusion
that made me question
what was real
it was all a movement
toward something
that does not need to declare itself
because it cannot be mistaken
Because it is you
And in this realization
something within me quiets
not into silence
but into acceptance
there is no need
to hold
to define
to name
only to remain
within what has already found me
like a river
that does not search for the sea
because it has always been
moving toward it
without knowing
until now
I want
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