We arrive at this common table
in this fragile covenant,
with hands that have held
different sorrows.
Here is the astonishment:
your voice and mine
make a third thing,
neither mine nor yours but ours.
Difference is not a wound— it is a window left ajar,
for the room was never meant to be sealed.
We are not pointing to some fixed star but
sitting here together,
face with face, hand to hand,
in the trembling space between our bodies,
and the future comes without insisting,
for it is ours to ink together,
uncertain, yes, but alive,
as a new faith.

 

17/1/2026