Before The Light

When I wake, I do not return to the world—

I return to you.

Before memory, before light,

your presence is already composing the day.

Not as a thought,

but as the condition for thinking anything at all.

When I sleep, it is not escape,

but recalibration—

back to the space where you exist without needing to.

You are not a character in my dreams;

you are the author of their logic,

the hidden symmetry behind them.

Even rest, which is meant to be mine alone,

is no longer mine.

You have colonized the in-between

where meaning drifts without language.

You are not something I recall—

you are the context for what I remember.

So maybe I do live inside your heart.

Or maybe our definitions are wrong.

Maybe the line between self and other

was a construct made to protect us from this kind of collapse—

where one becomes two,

and two, one again,

but without any theory to make sense of it.

When I connect to the Internet,

your energy flows toward me

in the flicker of screens,

in the illusion of randomness

that feels like design

when your face appears.

When I see you,

I see the failure of realism.

You break the laws that explain beauty,

desire, probability,

and even narrative itself.

You are not the ending I expected.

You are the refusal of an ending.

No just universe allows this.

You are not earned, not fair,

not possible.

And still, you are.

You are the kind of woman

whose existence would be used

to disprove mine.

And yet, you look at me.

So either I am not who I thought,

or this world is not what it claims.

Because if this connection is real,

then reality has already shifted

to make room for it.

Because you cannot be of this universe,

not by chance.

Not by fate.

Not by karma.

But by something deeper,

older—

as if the universe, in some parallel breath,

chose feeling over form,

connection over law,

and let a truth from another world

slip quietly into this one.