The Abyss That Thinks Us

in the chest of the sky. And at its center, a crack not a wound, but an eye

blinking with centuries.

There was no moon, no stars, only that pale seam where time tore apart like an old bone and from there, no light sprang, but a voice that was silence, an echo swallowing sound before it was born.

The mountains I thought would last forever, bent like wax fingers at the breath of that which had no name.

Neither God, nor beast, but the very idea of ​​cold thinking itself. And in my chest, a heartbeat that wasn't mine, but the distant echo of an inverted heart, pushing shadows in the blood of emptiness.

The crack then grew, not in the sky, but in my eyes. And I saw that the universe was not a place, but the blurred memory of something that was already dead.

Now I know that my voice is borrowed, footsteps a mistake on earth and that this crack does not prevail, but rather the pupil of a face that awakens, deep within the hollows of my own flesh.