beyond Earth,
breathing throughout
the whole universe.
You do not need reasons
to understand her story
—the sea—
yet you don’t see the tsunami behind us:
a yesterday still raining
into our present that is nothing
but its fall.
Beneath our Moon,
between day and night,
between cold and warmth,
you are the silence
my sea leaves behind.
Every day,
long before the ink can settle,
its gravity is already holding her,
drawing her inward
into a place without time.
To me, every fall
has always been toward the page,
and she was you,
all the way down—
You are the one who rewrites
the silence around my world
into a single instant, suspended,
becoming the last vanishing line
of time.
What are dreams
but ink longing to touch the real?
What is the night of thought, my love?
That unnamed place,
that unwritten time,
somewhere,
and yet no one writes from here,
only to fall beyond dreams.
If we are a reminiscence,
time is nothing:
an idea without hour,
an hour too fragile
to hold that idea.
If the sea moves across the universe,
if here, below,
we exist as each other’s reminiscences,
we would already inhabit
every edge, every horizon.
Today, I let this question find you:
could the seas of other lives
breathe the same philosophy as ours?
the same truth,
the same meaning,
the same us?
Beneath our Moon,
our hands are alive,
so are yours, my love;
yet one day
the future will end us,
just as a period does.
Every night,
all of its night
shall come back to us,
unbroken.