Astypalea, April 8

This morning we wandered without a plan. The kind of day that unfolds like a silk scarf—soft, slow, slightly wrinkled by wind. We left the paths and found ourselves at the edge of a garden half-swallowed by wilderness. A still pond shimmered before us, scattered with lilies and silence.

You wore that green silk dress, the one that glows like new leaves after rain. I couldn’t help watching your reflection move beside mine, like two versions of us untouched by time. We didn’t speak for a while. We didn’t need to. The wind carried scents of basil and salt. Somewhere behind the ruins, a goat bell rang once and was gone.

You turned your head slightly, and I leaned in without thinking. Your hair smelled like fig leaves. I whispered something foolish, just to break the moment. You smiled but didn’t answer. Instead, you stepped closer to the edge of the water, took my hand, and we stood there like children who'd just discovered a world without roads.

We walked into the hush of lilies and stone, your hand warm in mine like a fruit I didn’t want to bite.

Not lovers, not yet— just two shadows dancing on the surface of a forgotten spring.

“Why fall at my feet? You can’t hide the unguent from her nipples streaking your chest…” —Amaru, Poem 24

Today, that poem made you laugh. You asked if the old poets ever just wrote about peace. I said no, because peace can’t be described. It can only be held—like you, at the edge of a secret pond.

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