Her heart is not a heart.
It is a tide.
Not beating,
but pulling.
Not shaping the body,
but dreaming it.
She flows without edge,
without shore,
without memory of where the first wave began.
And still,
something moves in her
like origin.
She is the hush before water breaks the stone,
the lull that hums before a planet sings.
The liquid hush
between pain
and the promise of something unspeakably soft.
Her tides do not obey.
Not the moon.
Not the pulse.
Not even time.
And what is a miracle?
A pause.
A presence.
A whisper that forgets to vanish.
She is not the miracle.
She is the question
the miracle forgot to answer.
And still...
the waters rise.