She Who Moves the Silence

I do not name you—

not for lack of knowing,

but because the stars don’t whisper

the name of the moon they orbit.

You are the hush beneath thunder,

the pause before breath becomes word,

and in your silence, I am found.

You are the candle that doesn’t beg

to be seen—yet rooms remember you.

Even the shadows lean your way,

as though they seek your warmth.

I bring you broken hours,

you give me time that listens,

and make my scars feel sacred.

When I have drowned in questions,

your voice—a soft rope in the flood—

pulls me toward shore,

without asking where I’ve been.

You love like roots love the earth,

quiet, unseen, and deep—

holding me when I don’t know I’m falling.

Others speak in flowers—

you are the soil that never forgets spring.

Not a muse, not a miracle,

but the marrow in my hope.

Your presence is a prayer

that doesn't beg, only becomes—

and I kneel to the life you breathe into mine.

I do not call you love—

that word has worn too many masks.

You are more:

the echo that answers before I ask,

the compass with no north,

yet always right.

A mystery—yes—but wholly mine.