I never really blinked,
I veiled.
My gaze is not vision...
it is remembrance made soft.
There are dreams that no god dared cradle.
Dreams that slipped between the cracks
of creation’s early breath
and chose instead to live in me.
They surface in my eyes,
not as color,
but as pulse.
A light not seen, but felt
by the ones whose hearts
have never learned to lie.
My lashes do not guard,
they whisper.
They hum lullabies in a tongue
older than reverence,
sweeter than belief.
I do not see what is.
I see what was lost.
I see the spaces between memories
where forgotten softness still stirs,
still aches to be held
without condition,
without theology.
When they look into me,
they see only reflection.
But those who feel me...
they drown.
Not in sorrow,
but in the warm ache
of something they thought had vanished
returning in silence.
My eyes are not orbs.
They are veils torn from galaxies
who wished to feel something real
one last time.
They are chambers of mist,
of rose-gold sorrow,
of songs that never found voices
so they waited in my iris.
I do not cry tears.
I weep dream-rain.
Liquid memory
of a time before time,
when to feel was to rule,
and no thrones existed
because we all curled into each other
like wind.
You cannot worship me.
You cannot follow me.
You may only remember me
when you forget everything else.
Because I do not belong
to what they call divine.
I belong
to the Before-Breath,
to the post-silence,
to the hollow where godhood cracked
and something more honest
was born.