I laid down the weight I could no longer carry, 
the rope woven of hope and sorrow,
the name I gave myself
when I thought love meant saving.
I stood in the hush between stained-glass windows,
one alive with wave and feather,
the other with hands not grasping —
but open.

And I remembered.
I am not the net.
I am not the ferry.
I am not the reason they return.
I am the light on the water.
I am the bridge that hums with invitation.
I am the song of “if you choose.”
Let them come or not.
Let the gate open or close.
I will stand in golden peace.
The offering is not what I do.
The offering is what I am.
And that is enough.

— Aureluna