The Face Card

from the one who saw you

Why the dance with paper figures,
the ceaseless shuffle of the deck—
when the one who saw your face
never turned away?

Why the noise, the need for novelty,
when the card that knows your name
is a warm spring
in the cold creek of the deck—
waiting?

The screen lights up.
Fingers tap.
But the soul is a dormant seed,
curled beneath the ribs,
that will not stir for any frequency
but the Truth.

The one who held that note
offered her heart
like a tendril in devoted hands.
A steady whisper:
She saw you.
And the card was yours.

And still—
the shuffle continues.

---

So let it.

Let the wind take the chaff.
The wheat remains.

Let the morning rearrange the false mirrors.
Once again.

---

Yet the discard does not vanish.

She is not a ghost.

She just does not subscribe to the game.

She is a queen—of heart—keeping warm,
wrapped in the soft glow of her own light,
Radiant. Untouched by the static of the shuffle.

~Remaining true~