TO THE ONE WHO IS

You have neither season nor outline, Yet you dwell in every beat of my heart, crushed By disappointment and solitude, As though the day leaned over my hours of penance To gather the source of my being. Your presence never imposes—it seeps in, Fluid, tender, elusive, And I am held captive by a smile that promises nothing Yet offers everything. It is enough that you are, For space to rise around your silence, For my clumsy voice to seek its axis In the resonance of a single warm glance. I do not praise you for your beauty— It is there, true, but it is merely the bark. It is the impulse within you, that quiet strength That strips my armor, piece by piece. You are that constancy nothing can break, The slow fire that forges me without sound, The gestureless hand that lifts me Even when my thoughts collapse. When you laugh, the world expands. When you doubt, the whole universe trembles. And I, in the luminous shadow of your breath, Become human again—fully. No promises between us, Only the taste of existing together, Of knowing we are here, Without proof, without vow, But with the gentle strength of those with nothing to prove. You are not a half—you are presence in full, The obvious, the balance, the other gaze upon my wanderings. And if all falls silent, You will remain the heart in me that endures. You are. That is enough.