Claudia Rezai
Stories that
stay with you.

Before the world had learned our names,
before the stars had mapped their flames,
one breath exhaled and split in two —
and half of me became you.

We crossed the oceans, crossed the years,
through different cities, different fears,
through crowded rooms and open skies,
through everything that wasn't ours to find.

Then in a kitchen, tray in hand,
she looked up — and the world unmanned
itself of noise, of wall, of door —
time forgot what it was for.

He reached for water. Eyes met eyes.
And something ancient recognised
the half it had been missing since
before the first breath, before the first kiss.

They didn't speak it. Couldn't name it.
Love like that — you cannot tame it.
It doesn't knock. It doesn't wait.
It simply opens every gate.

Two worlds apart, two different skies —
a refugee with fire in her eyes,
and a man who had everything
except the one thing that could make him sing.

She kept her walls. He kept his calm.
But even stone must yield to warmth,
and even pride must learn to kneel
before something this terribly real.

They hurt each other. Of course they did.
Love always finds the wounds you hid.
But what is meant returns like tide —
it doesn't rush, it doesn't hide.

It waits. It aches. It finds a way.
It shows up on the 8th hour of the day.

So here they are — the rose, the door,
the sunlight spilling on the floor,
her dress like water, him undone —
two souls, at last, becoming one.

Not perfect. No. But finally — found.
Two halves of one eternal sound.

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