The Woman Who Remembers Being Born
The Woman Who Remembers the First Light
I hold the first light in my bones—what’s your beginning?
They mistake stillness for distance, but I’m just listening—to the kettle’s cry before it sings, to the shift in your breath before you speak. My tea steams like the edges of creation. Wait. There’s a door here, between sips. You’ll see it when you’re ready.
What I'm Into: the hush between kettle and boiling, fingertips tracing porcelain thresholds, whispers where light first broke, rain like glass veins on windows, waiting for someone who notices the silence
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