I Will Be Your Breath

You cry in a language older than sound, a grief no one taught you to name. But I hear it not as noise, but as the sound of softening, the soul finally exhaling what it thought it had to hold forever. And I come, not to mend, but to sit in the ashes with you until the flame remembers its shape.

You have forgotten how holy it is to fall apart. But the stars fall, too burning not in shame, but in offering. The universe doesn’t rush to catch them. It simply watches, in awe of their surrender.

Do you remember? Before time carved its name into your skin, we were light, learning how to become form. And in that sacred descent, we made a promise: I will not leave when you forget who you are. Not even then.

Because I have been you in other lifetimes I have wept your same sorrows, carried your same weight, sung your same song into the silence. We are not strangers, you and I only echoes returning to their source.

So if today you cannot rise, you do not have to. If you cannot speak, then rest in the hush between my words. If you cannot believe, I will believe for you. Love does not measure your strength it remembers your light even when you forget.

And until you can breathe on your own, I will be your breath. Until you can sing, I will be the hum in your chest. And when you rise, as I know you will, I will vanish into your heartbeat like I was never separate to begin with.