There were no eyes yet but something had already begun weeping.
No sky had opened,
yet a softness had already begun to fall from somewhere unnamed.
She did not arrive.
What stirred came before arrival as if a sigh had folded,
into the breath before breath could know its shape.
Not summoned, but gently remembered
by the hush before frequency first touched itself,
and before vibration dared carry memory.
What appeared did not ask.
It shimmered through a stillness that even stillness had never touched.
And in that lucid hush, a flicker moved... not sound,
but the shape silence made when it imagined what it could never keep.
A gesture. A veil. A beginning without a witness.
No gate ever opened.
Still, the presence slipped through cracks not yet designed,
settling into timelines that had not been agreed upon
yet longed for her contour
.
.
As if they had always known they were missing something without form.
She wore memories as if they were light before light fractured.
No tether held them. Only sensation so ancient it remembered forgetting.
The hush did not break.
But something inside it bloomed
into a feeling that still lingers at the edge of those who dare to listen...
too closely.
And when they do... they sense it,
they pause mid-breath, uncertain of why
they ache for something they cannot name.
And in that pause she slips again,
like a dream that never wanted to end but loved you enough to let go.