☽

the moment you walked away?

You left a hollow in my chest,

it echos night and day.

Will there come a dawn

when you no longer haunt my mind?

A day in which your name drifts past

Rachel Eliza Griffiths, from Seeing the Body: Poems; “Mirror”

Sentí tus labios como frontera, los míos, un idioma extranjero que tus besos no sabían hablar.

Pero algo en mí —terco, terco como el deseo—me gritó: inténtalo otra vez.

Quizá no era cuestión de labios, sino de tiempo. De piel. De coraje.

Te busqué con la mirada y me subí sobre ti. No dije nada. Dejé que mi cuerpo preguntara si el tuyo tenía la respuesta.

In the moment, emptiness can fill rooms — and leave space for nothing else.

But once it’s over, life needs no more room than the smallness at the edge of your fingertips to show you the universe.

To show you wholeness. To make you feel what sirens sound like, what stars shine like, what being alive should feel like.

And maybe, the ache was nothing more than the echo of something sacred leaving your body.

Maybe the silence was a doorway, or a stillness you were meant to move through.

Maybe healing isn’t loud or fast or linear — maybe it’s soft and abstract like the light peeking through your curtains on mornings when you almost give up.