If I should be allowed to speak,
let me speak to your heart.
Not to the careful mind
that arranges reasons
like stones in a wall,
but to the quiet chamber
where your warmth lives
without explanation.
Let my words arrive there
like light at dawn,
slow, patient,
spilling across the floor
before anyone notices
that night has gone.
I do not come
with clever sentences
or the language of certainty.
I come only
with the small trembling truth
that appears
when someone begins to matter.
Let me speak to that place in you
that listens without defense,
the place that knows
why the sea keeps returning to the shore
even after it has left a thousand times.
Because the heart understands
what the tongue struggles to carry:
that sometimes a voice
crosses the distance between two lives
like a quiet bridge.
And if my words reach you there,
in that hidden garden
where your silences grow,
then perhaps you will hear
what I cannot say plainly:
that something in me
leans gently toward you,
like a flame
that has just discovered
the direction of the wind.
