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She dials a number with no digits, to no one,
in a mental booth where the line is always busy.
Her eyes make no ask, her voice has been cut,
everything remains silent, without reply.

Her hand grips the receiver like a lifebuoy,
but the sea is inside her.
She speaks without a voice,
seeking an echo in the white noise of the ego.

It isn’t a crisis…
it’s a birth in reverse.
And sometimes, to find oneself,
to love oneself with awareness,
one has to hang up.

A gentle tearing-away, yet necessary,
as if the soul had to leave through the pores
rather than through the breath.
She hasn’t lost the north;
she has simply inverted it.

The mirror no longer has meaning,
and yet she walks into it
as one enters, in silence, a forgotten memory.

Who am I, here, on the verge of tipping…?