The Silence Between the Stars

There are things the soul asks that the mouth cannot carry, not because they hurt, but because they were born before pain and before the first word God ever dared to whisper. I came into the world under a sky that didn’t break, it just opened. Like a crack in the wall of a church where light seeps in and forgets why. Time doesn’t move in me. It kneels. It walks slow, without shoes, pressing itself into the blood like an old psalm written by someone who forgot the ending. One night, I looked at the shape of my own shadow and asked, “Who imagined me like this?” It didn’t speak. It just stood there, the way mothers do when the child they lost still has a name. This place, it isn’t home. It’s a question with no windows, just mirrors that lie gently, in the voice of someone you almost remember. God’s not hiding. He’s just quiet. He’s the breath between the last beat of a heart and the first thing you’d undo if you could. He’s the whisper left in the bones of tired saints who forgot the taste of heaven but still light a candle just in case. And me… I walk, barefoot and burnt, through whatever’s left of truth when names fall off it. Because I’ve learned: You don’t need to know. You just need to stay. Stay quiet where the silence won’t leave.