I hear you calling again
from that corridor where echoes wear human names.
But not in this life,
not in this dim bureaucracy of hours
where doors open only into other doors.
They say our lifetimes run in parallel,
like condemned rails never touching,
past leaning into future,
future disguised as memory,
the present only a clerk
misfiling our names in dust.
And still your call.
It rises through the veil
like a hand through water,
thin with longing,
ancient as a wound not permitted to close.
Sometimes I think we have met already
in another arrangement of sorrow,
where the stars made no accusations
and time did not feed on itself.
Here I answer only in silence.
What else is left
when love arrives as an apparition
and asks to be believed?
Your voice reaches me
from the side of existence barred to reason.
A summons. A sentence. A mercy.
And I know,
though not in this life,
not beneath these failing lamps,
not while flesh mistakes prison for home,
somewhere our parallel lines revolt.
Somewhere they bend.
Somewhere the veil, exhausted by our waiting, tears.
When I hear you calling again
I do not call it loss.
I call it remembrance.
