Older Than Memory - A Quiet Truth

A quiet reflection on distance, misunderstanding, and the courage to return to oneself.

You ask me,
Where are you?
I name the place.
I send a photograph -
but you do not see
what opens in me.

I search for words,
to paint it carefully for you
and I hold them out
like something fragile.
They reach you
already alienated.

The truth is never spoken,
but I hear it anyway:
you do not understand
the language I live in.

Sometimes I want you to recognize me.
Sometimes I want you to read my mind.
And sometimes I wonder -
if you did,
would you still be you?

This is older than memory.

I kept on improving the failing bridge
between what I see
and what you allow to be real -
yet it was crossed one way -
you were constructing endless stops,
and I remain
hopeful you will find me there.

I began building it as a child.
Only the riverbank
has experienced me throughout my lifespan.
I delve into the crystalline coating of water,
and I froze in mindful perception,
re-collecting seasons together again:
how much of myself
I had placed on hold,
silencing my voice,
so I could sound in your fondness,
catch a glimpse of your warmth.

I did not name the quiet ache inside me.
I turned it into rearranging
my scattered pieces.

I love you unconditionally,
but not without conditions for me.
Learning into your rhythm
more than my own.

And something snapped me out of the spell -
I cannot wait forever.
You are the weather I have known since the beginning -
each shadow, each downpour, each fleeting sunbeam.
But I cannot surrender my breath to the hurricane.
I cannot sacrifice the child who dreamed.
Even when dark clouds gather,
even when old storms rise beneath my skin,
I step into shelter,
I gather my colors,
I protect the wonder that is mine.

I reached toward you,
but it traveled differently.
I was not trying to alter you.
My soul pined for home.

Still, I carried it -
a careful weight.

My words returned to me,
wearing meanings
I had never given them.

You kept losing me
without noticing.

And I kept staying
longer than I should have.

There is a particular kind of loneliness
in being misunderstood
by someone who believes
they know you completely.

It took me years
to admit to myself
that I feel lighter
when I am elsewhere.

Distance feels like thriving on serenity.
Staying feels like constant shrinking.

There was no final storm,
no shattered glass.
Yet something in me
had already begun to separate.
Some things
are no longer offered.

You asked behind my door -
Are you there?
And I whispered -
Not for you anymore.

Before the clock  could count two seconds,
your steps moved away
without a second thought.
And I almost reached a handle
to play my role.

Instead,
I returned to the bridge -
I only wanted to see her.
I took her tools away,
and wrapped her in my arms -
the sun reunited with me.
She had never left.