Her heart does not beat like the clocks
of this world,
it moves like water moves
through starlight,
with tides that are born from silence,
and currents too ancient to trace.
She is not a shape confined
by bone or breath,
but a motion...
A sacred,
eternal pulling toward something
she has never seen,
yet remembers in her salt.
She does not rise and fall.
She recedes.
She returns.
And somewhere
between the going and the coming,
she becomes.
Her blood is not red,
but opalescent,
a fluid memory
of moons that have never touched
their sky,
but sleep in her veins
as lullabies unsung.
She is not the answer.
Nor the riddle.
But the hush that trembles
between them both,
where language drowns
and only knowing remains.
She does not weep.
The sea weeps through her.
And if ever you taste her sorrow,
know it is not sorrow
but the first rain in a realm
that never believed in skies.
She is the echo of a question
that even light forgets to ask.
And yet,
still she glows.
Still she flows.
Still, she calls.