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There are no names for this
what rises in me when you appear,
like the tide remembering
the pull of the moon.
I have called it love before,
but love is a small bird,
and this is a storm
wild, untranslatable,
breaking the branches of my silence.
Love is too weak a word for what I feel for you
it collapses under its own weight,
unable to carry the sound of your name.
Sometimes I think my soul was once a piece of the earth,
that broke away only to find you again.
Every path I take curves toward your absence,
every wind carries a trace of your breath.
Even time seems to move differently
when your memory crosses it
it slows down,
as if it too waits for your touch.
When I think of you,
the air changes shape.
Even the light bends,
as if trying to touch your outline.
If I could open my chest,
you would see continents moving,
oceans shifting in their sleep,
all whispering your name
in languages that never learned to speak.
This feeling
it outgrows every word,
outlives every metaphor.
It is not love,
it is what love becomes
when it forgets itself
and turns into eternity.
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