The Thread and the Call.

Once there was a thread spun long before time

woven quiet through breath and bone,

It shimmered like something half-remembered

the color of a memory not yet lived.

Two hearts were stitched by it,

not tightly, not by force.

But by something softer than reason,

and older than names.

He wandered far chasing echoes

forgetting the warmth in the quiet of her chest,

But she remembered...

Not everything, just enough.

Enough to wait,

not in stillness

but in the kind of hush that hums beneath thunder.

She left her call in the sky,

She wrote it in rain,

She tucked it between wildflower roots,

and in the last star before dawn.

And if he ever listens, truly listens

the thread will pull

Not painfully not sharply

Like a song he always knew...

He won’t know why his breath catches,

why the air bends different,

why his chest says turn.

But he will.

And he’ll find the path lit with her waiting.

Not with desperation,

But with a lantern of yes

And a door made of once upon a time

that still swings open.