She Who Walks With the Desert

She came as the moon rises, slow and certain,

casting silver across his barren sands.

Her steps left whispers in the dust,

soft echoes of something ancient,

something he had forgotten to long for.

She did not come to save him—

no goddess would dare.

She found him in his aloneness,

kneeling before no altar but his own shadow,

a man made of questions and scars.

“What do you seek?” she asked,

her voice like water over stone.

He did not answer.

Instead, he lifted his gaze,

letting her see the hollow he had carved,

the space he had made for himself.

She smiled, not as conquerors do,

but as the Nile smiles at thirsty land.

“Let me walk with you awhile,”

she said, her fingers brushing

the edges of his doubt,

not to erase it,

but to show him the shape of its beauty.

She brought no prayers,

no chants or promises of eternity.

She only offered her presence,

her laughter like the wind’s caress,

her silence deep as the heavens above.

She did not teach him faith,

but how to drink deeply of the now.

When he faltered,

when the weight of his own questions

threatened to bury him,

she pressed her hands to his chest—

steady, warm, alive.

“Do you feel this?” she asked.

“This is your divinity.”

She stayed long enough

to show him that strength need not stand alone,

that even the desert blooms

when given the gentlest rain.

And when the time came for her to go,

she left him no relics,

no tokens of her touch,

only the echo of her footsteps

and the knowledge

that he was already whole.