Once we met at the threshold of worlds,
and a river of vision opened between us.

We were spellbound—our spirits spoke in secret tongues,
our breath carried omens,
our hands unlatched whole galaxies.

But spells are living things,
and every living thing has its season.

The shimmer thinned.
Your voice softened into a man’s voice,
my sight quieted into daylight.
The net loosened. The fire receded.

You, too, let it go.
I, too, released my hold.
Neither betrayed, neither abandoned—
only the enchantment unknotted itself.

Now we surface,
the water streaming from our faces,
the deep closing behind us.

We stand in daylight once more,
breathing air, touching earth.

And then—
like voyagers at a crossroads—we part.

Not in sorrow, not in anger,
but called to different mythic waters.

He returns to his own sea,
to wrestle his depths,
to listen for the voices
that rise from his trenches.

I return to mine,
to gather pearls from silence,
to descend where my gods dwell,
to learn the shape of my own soul.

We are grateful—that we found each other,
that we held the spell together,
that we released it with open hands.

And yet, in this release,
something unfamiliar stirs.
We walk free of attachments,
free of needs,
and the happiness feels strange—like wearing a new skin,
like a joy both radiant and aching,
as though something is missing
and something greater
is being born.

The spell is broken,
yet not destroyed.
It lingers like a blessing,
like salt upon the skin,
reminding us—we touched the sacred,
and in breaking free,
we became new.