Who Am I ?

I am not the face in the mirror,

nor the shadow following me home.

I am the question behind the question,

the silence after prayer,

the dust on a road that leads nowhere

and everywhere at once.

I am a breath

borrowed from the Infinite,

a spark hidden in clay,

a traveler carrying both longing and light

in the folds of my heart.

Some days I feel lost—

scattered like desert sand in the wind.

Other days,

I am the wind itself,

moving without needing to know why.

I am the flute in Rumi’s song,

hollowed so that the Beloved’s voice

can pass through me.

I am both the ache of separation

and the sweetness of union,

the tear that falls

and the ocean it returns to.

I am not finished,

and I am not fixed.

The soul is a river

that forgets its source

until it remembers.

If you ask me, Who are you?

I can only answer with a gesture

a hand pointing toward the sky,

another pressed against my chest.

Between the two—

that is where I live.

Who I am is not mine to keep.

It is a secret written in divine ink,

a name whispered by the stars,

a story still unfolding in the unseen.