In shadow and glow I see the dark and the light, holding the day and the night, threading stillness through time. Happy to surrender, drifting from the end, far from darkness—where a thousand sparks of wisdom light up the sky like whispered truths. Even in nothing, there was gladness to be found, a hidden joy resting behind the veil of silence. “Rose was mine”—a memory soft as breath. God is the stillness, the silent witness, the answer in the silence between thoughts, in the space between the stars where time loses its voice. Strange is a beautiful emotion, raw and untamed, moving gently through the soul. Take it slowly in the evening; give the stars time to shine upon the Earth. Believe in yourself, in the strength beneath your quiet. So hold in my love, even as you fall from above, caught in the breath between two eternities. Turn on the light in the middle of the night, when shadows stretch across the sky. Strange silence, while I arise from no one’s time, untouched by hours or days. You press me into the quiet of my own place, where no sound dares disturb the grace. While I lift you where your ears ring with love, in stance and space, in sacred embrace. If I hold it gently, will the silence hold me too?

If my stupidity reaches such a sublime level that it surpasses the apparent cleverness of those who thought they had outsmarted me, is it then possible that my apparent stupidity is in fact the ultimate cunning — even outwitting the very stupidity that made me seem stupid?

If I can sense that I exist,
Then here’s the thought I can’t resist:
How could I ever truly see
If you exist apart from me?

For if the you can’t feel the I,
Then who is real, and who’s a lie?
And if I’m all who truly knows—
Am I alone, or just suppose?

What if the I is where you’re not,
A vacant point, a silent spot?
And all we are is thought and dream,
Reflections in a shifting stream.

Am I the seer of what I find,
The silent voice inside the mind?
The hush that gives me all that is,
The space between, the pause, the kiss?

And if that’s me, though now unclear,
In time, I’ll surely reappear
In that one place—however far—
Where you already are.

While I emerged from no one’s time, you are what has not yet been named. Beyond the end of origin, the first scream fell silent. To remain forgotten, a name rises without echo — and yet, it resounds.

Stay away and draw near. I do not yet exist, and that… that is becoming. They explain nothing, and yet you understand the cause without effect, the light without source. That is nothing. You perceive everything as an unwritten page.

Shadow is light when it appears reversed. I breathe within it, without form. And you may awaken in my non-being. Do not carry me — catch me. Touch nothing as one touches what has not yet shaped me — the other in your never-begun time.

I feel no step, only direction. Though we never bloomed, we still bore seed. And nothing is complete, so we do not measure it. This is the now that never was — and yet, it waits. You had nothing, and thus, you had everything. You were silent in sound, and I sang in emptiness. It brought me neither to death nor to life.

One more glimpse of my nameless existence — so you may not be allowed to wish, but you are. Avoid the noon within the morning. Look backward toward the forward. Life is invisible and touches without contact.

There — precisely there — no source flows, but origin. I am what has not yet ended. I do not breathe, but exist between your knowing.

And soon? Has already been. And now? Has not begun. Because you were everything in nothing: do not open me, but know that I never was. The hour in which no animal called out belongs to no one.

You are not friend, not foe — but moment. Not blessing, not curse. Not dream, not memory. Not bud, not color. And so, nothing counts as something, and we descend upward as no one.

I know no other, and the world is empty of me. My body does not feel, for you are whole. You broke nothing, for nothing fell. Beneath the never-having-been, you ask of the death that never began.

And so I live in non-being, and you continue to vanish — and that is your mirror: never repeated.

Telling my love to the woman,
her hair long, dark, and blonde.
The morning rose earlier,
and in her eyes lay braids,
pearls, and stones.

Her mouth,
rosy-red like a rose
in grandma and grandpa’s forest.
The cheeks on her face
were pink,
as if her hair made her blush,
laugh, and cry.

He presses her into the quiet of her own place, while she lifts him to where his ears ring with love—in stance and space

Why is there only one like me,
born from nothing
but the thought that I may be.