我唔再數呼吸——
佢哋自己散開，
一縷一縷，
似黑暗忽然學識發光。

身體唔再係邊界，
而係一扇門，
開得咁慢，
連時間都忘記催我。

有一刻，
我只聽見血液行過自己；
冇名字，冇方向，
只有一股力量
從骨縫深處升起，
將沉默推到最高。

我冇捉住佢。
亦冇逃。

任佢經過我，
像潮水經過石頭——
唔帶走我，
只留下我終於知道
自己可以有幾深。

後來一切歸於靜。

窗外仍然係夜，
床單仍然係床單，
月光甚至冇問發生過乜嘢。

只有我知道：

那一刻，
身體曾經比語言
更加誠實。

I stopped counting breath.

It had become too large for numbers,
unthreading itself through me
until even the dark
seemed briefly illuminated from within.

The body ceased to be a boundary.
It became a threshold—
not crossed,
but opened,
slowly enough
for time to lose its manners.

Then came that strange instant
when blood itself seemed audible,
a private weather beneath the skin,
rising without permission,
without language,
without anything left to explain.

I did not seize it.
I did not resist.

I let the force pass through me
with the terrible ease
of water finding its level.

And afterwards—

nothing had changed.
The room remained the room.
The night kept its distance.
Moonlight, with impeccable discretion,
made no comment.

Yet something in me
had crossed no boundary
and discovered one:

that the body,
when wholly awake,
can tell the truth
before the mind has found
the courage to name it.