Me—
the meadow of the night,
where the cows of your kisses wander
like silent stars
set loose in my bones.
Your breath
drifts through me
as silk wind,
your touch
breaks over me
as the wet hymn of the sea.
Even the hush between us
pants like a wave
trying to become prayer.
I entered you
thinking I would drown,
thinking I would vanish
the way a drop
is unmade
in the ocean of the Beloved.
I wanted to be erased,
to melt,
to forget the heavy “I”
that burdens the soul.
But you—
you did not let me die.
You threw me back
into the furnace of life,
and in that fire
I learned:
love is not a grave,
but an anvil.
Union is not disappearance,
but rebirth.
The Beloved’s depth
is not an ending,
it is a threshold.
So I rose,
not as the one who entered you,
but as the one carved
by the entering.
Sculpted by your silence,
sharpened by your mercy,
reddened by the ache
of becoming real.
Now I stand
at the seam of fire and dew,
half of me dissolving,
half of me ascending—
a creature of two infinities,
a butterfly whose wings
are woven
of both extinction
and return.
And this
this trembling balance,
is how I know
I am alive.
