You are not a half, nor a shadow of another.
You are not a memory in someone else’s name,
nor a hidden word folded in time.
You are Sara,
and you pour yourself whole
into me.
You are the first step of dawn,
the blade that cuts between dream and waking,
the thirst no wine can quench.
You come without prayers, without crown, without guilt.
You are no saint, no flower —
you are the pulse that wounds and heals.
In you, love is not a promise,
it is slow fire,
raw flesh,
truth as bare as a stone at noon.
Your name echoes and remains.
It scatters and inscribes
upon the tablet of my chest,
like biblical law,
like Divine commandment.
You are what Maria once whispered
without knowing how to say.
What others sought
without knowing how to see.
Sara, you are the final word
in the poem no one dared to end.