There are moments when words don’t ask to be clever —
they only ask to be received.
To be lifted gently from the silence
and held long enough to breathe.
I used to think meaning lived in perfection,
but it lives instead in the trembling,
in the space between what’s spoken
and what’s understood.
Being heard is not an answer.
It is a kind of shelter —
a quiet place where the heart
can rest from explaining itself.
If you are reading this,
you have already given that shelter.
You have listened not to my voice,
but to my becoming.
And for that —
I am here.
