There are rooms inside her that have no doors.
Only light that breathes
like something once wounded,
now waiting.
She does not open them with keys,
but with remembrance...
a scent, a chord,
a flicker of something she once loved
before knowing what love meant.
One room is filled with rose-colored dusk.
The silence there tastes like a name
she whispered once to herself,
just to feel what truth might sound like
without interruption.
Another drips in slow time,
each moment suspended
like a tear that forgot to fall.
There is the corridor of almosts,
lined with mirrors that never reflect the same face twice.
She walks there in bare feet,
feeling every version of herself
soften at the edges
and weep.
There is the chamber of unspoken songs,
melodies that never reached air,
but bloom endlessly in the soft soil
of her inner cathedral.
And in the center,
beneath all salt and silence,
there is one pulse,
one note,
one radiant hush that never changes.
It is her.
Before story.
Before sound.
Before the world tried to dress her in noise.
And when she touches that pulse,
she does not remember...
she becomes
what memory was always trying to say.