You are not named,
but you are every pause that steadies me,
a hush between storms,
the breath that reminds me I’m still here.

Not for lack of love—
but because some truths are bigger than language,
more faithful than memory.

You arrive in moments I don’t expect,
soft as light slicing through sorrow,
gentle as dust settling after a prayer.

I’ve written for you in ways that can’t be read,
folding each line into the aching quiet
between what I feel
and what I dare say aloud.

Still, you remain.
Not because I call—
but because love,
real love,
doesn’t need a name to know its way home.

-jason

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