the morning with my teacher

this morning,
i slept in
but it wasn’t laziness,
it was surrender.
i had nothing left to prove
to the clock,
or the myth of becoming.

i sat still,
breathed the universe into its shape.
moved the bones.
showered.
then walked straight into my lineage,
dripping and awake.

i hugged him
not the man,
but the soul hiding inside him.

“i’m sorry i don’t do this more,” i said.
“you’re doing a great job
at being you.”

said it plain,
like a man who’d wrestled his gods
and came back not with fire,
but a hand open.

he asked,
“what brought this on?”

i asked,
“what changed in you?”

he said,
“everything.”

and i said,
“yeah…
maybe when everything dies
we’re finally who we are.
maybe the only thing that’s afraid
is the part of us that was never real.
maybe we just have to let go
and trust.”

he looked at me
like a mirror remembering its face,
and said,
“yes,
like moses
leading them across the dead sea,
but they wanted to go back.”

he told me
about a friend who wants a new life with him
in india.
a café.
a quiet rebirth.
she read his cards
and said he’s at war,
told him to be careful.

i said,
“she’s about three years late
with her newsflash.”

we laughed
not because it was funny,
but because the war is over
once you stop picking up the sword.

i told him,
“these are tools. not prophecy.
you choose what you accept,
how you read it.
your soul’s the author.”

and just before i left,
i looked him in the eyes,
the boy behind the years,
and said,
“i love you.”

then i walked out.
not from the house,
but from the illusion
that we were ever separate.