We came from silence, woven in the unbroken fabric of all,
a trillion, trillion years without a seam,
and yet here, in this brief arc of a hundred winters, we break,
splintered into the shape of a single life,
a distinct, discernible self, born into the noise of longing.
How strange, this ache for edges, for lines that tell us we are apart,
this push toward identity, toward the brittle shell of “I,”
yet in the quietest rooms of our being, something remembers,
the endless tide of all things pressing against itself,
not separate, never known by name.
We walk as fragments, marked by the wound of our own hands,
yet somewhere beneath—beyond breath, beyond bone—
we are stitched back, thread by thread, into the original whole.
This, the silent pull, the unspoken promise:
we are distinct but not abandoned, cut but never divided.