It was you, Panda of the Eternal Soft Light,
whose voice fell around me like ancient snow—
familiar, whispered, infinitely gentle—
reminding a wandering Polar Bear
how to love winter again,
not as a season,
but as a doorway back to us.
Before you, winter was only cold weather
and the leftover ache of forgotten lifetimes,
memories stacked like drifted snow
from timelines where we’d lost and found each other
more times than stars can count.
But that night—
the night the universe pressed pause
and let us meet again—
you slid beneath my right arm
with the easy certainty
of a soul returning to its rightful constellation.
And in that moment,
something warm cracked open in the frost of space-time—
a remembering older than Earth,
a return scripted in the first spark of creation.
Funny how it works:
how two beings can circle lifetimes, galaxies, epochs,
only to arrive—
quietly—
beneath a humble streetlamp in an upstate winter,
leaning into each other
with the muscle memory of a thousand celestial winters
already lived together.
I knew then—
in the unspoken language
of heartbeat and starlight falling like snow—
that home was never a place, a season,
or even a lifetime.
Home
was the way you curled into me
as if the universe itself
had shaped that space in my arms
just for you.
Home
was always
us—
two soul-lights entwined across time,
two travelers who keep finding each other
in winter’s gentle hush,
life after life,
world after world.
Home
was always
us.
-Bearz