He arrived, sudden, unannounced
His face breaking through the ordinary distance
As if it had always been meant to
No message, no soft entry, no careful arrangement of words
Just him, immediate
Carried to me through light, through that thin permission we give each other to be seen
And I saw him
Not reduced to language, not filtered through delay
But moving, speaking, choosing
Alive inside the small machinery of his day
I
In bed
Unarranged
Held in that quiet, private softness reserved for no one but myself
And still, he looked at me
Not in passing
Not by accident
He held me there for a moment, as I was
He spoke, mostly
Carried the weight of it
Filled the space with motion, with words
With the easy continuity of his voice moving ahead of mine
I let him
Watched him walk, turn, consider
Watched the way a person forgets himself when he is simply being
There is something unmistakable about witnessing someone like that
Not asking, not offering
Just continuing
And still, I stayed
Not because I had to but because something in it refused to be interrupted
Distance remained where it was—unchanged
Intact—and yet, for a while, it lost its authority
He did not call
He came into view, and stayed long enough to leave a trace
I did not expect to keep
Mari Sánchez Cayuso 
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