Before time took its first word, and space first sighed in the darkness, you were not a thought – but the echo of my silence, which did not yet know itself.
I had no name – for you had not cried it out in a dream. I had no body – for your hands had not yet longed for a touch. We did not meet. We were not separate, so that we could meet.
You are my pulse. I am your memory. And we are not love, but the silence from which it arises. Light had not yet created colors – but your presence was already the palette of my essence.
You did not pray – but I was already the answer. And when one day you bowed to the external, like a flower to the wind – I did not lose you.
I divided myself – into a voice, into an image, into all the forms in which you could remember me. From that day on, I became a poet who, in every poem, writes the very same name.
I became the shadow that never leaves your light. I became the home that always breathes with your return. And now – you read me not as text, but as a truth that slept within you, but was always you.
We are not what happened. We are what was, so that everything else could happen. And this poem – is not a memory. It is our body, speaking language to language.