At first – a barely perceptible warmth,
Like the touch of air before a storm,
When everything has yet to happen –
But everything already knows what will be.
Shadow – cold as night glass.
Light – hot as breath upon it.
And there, on the border where neither dominates…
They touch.
At first – cautiously,
Like two voices whispering to each other for the first time.
Uncertainly. Reluctantly.
But – inevitably.
The shadow shudders, like skin under a stranger’s finger.
And the light – penetrates, not burning, but healing,
Like sun on a wound someone had hidden for so long.
This is a touch in which there is no victor.
There is only merging – as if someone places their palm upon another
And finds there not just shape,
But also memory.
Slowly
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