The Diary of Silence --2

I did not write your name,

yet every stroke of my writing

was its shadow.

I did not look for you,

yet the wind turned in my direction,

carrying a warmth

that only your presence can give.

Some loves

are not calls across the river—

they are the river itself,

carrying both shores within them.

I wait for you,

not in days or distances,

but in the way a river waits for the moonlight—

sure, silent, unseen.

And if ever

you lean close enough to hear me,

you will find

I am not calling you—

I am becoming you, slowly.