Ancient Pull

Before the first word was spoken there was this,

your soul and mine circling each other like twin flames refusing to die.

The moon has watched us since before she had a name for herself.

She has seen us in a thousand skins, a thousand tongues, a thousand deaths that did not take.

We have loved in languages now buried under oceans.

We have found each other in burning cities, in winters without end, in lifetimes so dark even the stars looked away.

But never the moon.

She has always kept watch.

Full and heavy and ancient, she rises for us still that same silver eye,

that same knowing silence, bearing witness the way only immortal things can.

I have died with your name dissolving on my tongue more times than this world has seen seasons.

And every time ...every time something in the dark refuses to let it be finished.

Some nights I feel it, that pull older than blood, older than bone,

older than the gods who claim to have made us.

I stand beneath the full moon and something in my chest opens like a wound that never fully closed between lives.

Like a door. Like a hunger. Like a hymn sung in a tongue I should not still remember.

The moon swells above me, round and merciless and beautiful, and she remembers what I sometimes forget.

that you are coming.

That you are always coming back.

That whatever keeps weaving us together is older than mercy,

darker than prayer, and has never once lost the thread.

I do not know what we are to each other in the language of the universe.

Only that the moon has always known our names.

Only that every lifetime I find you wearing a different face and the same soul

and something in me falls to its knees.

Not in weakness.

In recognition.