Liquid Thoughts on the Mystery of You

I don’t know if your silences are calm seas or contained storms.

If your eyes hold constellations or eclipses.

If you are made of mornings that repeat themselves or nights that reinvent themselves.

But in this not knowing, there is poetry.

Because the unknown in you is like water:

it runs through your fingers, but leaves your skin

marked with the memory of its touch.

Perhaps you are a river that doesn’t reveal its source,

or an ocean that changes color depending on the sky that observes it.

And I, a navigator without a map,

continue floating in this liquid thought,

where each lack of response is a new current.

Not knowing about you is like loving the wind:

you don’t see it, but you feel it.

You don’t hold on to it, but you dance with it.

I don’t know if your steps follow maps or invent paths,

if your days are made of routines or silent revolutions.

Perhaps your dreams are birds that never land,

or storms that hide behind a calm smile.

I don’t know if your voice carries secrets or forgotten songs,

if your eyes have seen love as a miracle or a wound.

If your soul dances with time or resists it,

like a stone that refuses to be shaped by the current.

But in this not knowing, there is beauty.

Like the enchantment of a star that shines without a name,

like the perfume of a flower that has never been touched.

You are the poem I haven’t yet read,

the page the wind insists on turning before I finish.

You are made of absences that fill me,

of questions that don’t ask for answers,

of silences that speak more than words.

And I, navigating between your lines,

lose myself with pleasure in this sea of ​​uncertainty.

Not knowing about you is like loving the horizon:

always distant, always possible,

always promising more than it reveals.

Maybe one day I’ll decipher your mysteries,

or maybe not—and how wonderful it would be if not.

Because there is something sacred in the unknown,

something that keeps us alive, curious, poetic.