She has never belonged to the story they wrote...
her edges are smoke,
her roots made of ether and exile,
of places unnamed,
but remembered only by the soul.
They have tried
to trace her path in logic,
to capture her image in certainty,
to pin her down
between sentence and silence.
But she is not the type
to arrive where the map ends.
She begins after the compass forgets its purpose.
She walks barefoot across thresholds
no one sees.
Her scent is memory.
Her shape is reverie.
Her presence...
a question that undoes other questions.
They say:
"Who is she?"
And then forget what they were asking.
She speaks in the language of pulse,
not words.
She vanishes in mirrors,
but appears in dreams of strangers
who wake up weeping,
never knowing why.
Her truths come wrapped in fog,
in symbols that only the heart can translate,
and only when the heart
has forgotten how to lie.
She is not hidden.
She is just not held
by anything unworthy of her wild softness.
And the reason no one ever caught her
is simple:
She was never running.
She was only listening...
to the ache of the world,
and choosing carefully
where to place her light.