The One Who Climbed Down the Ladder
Fragment from the Hidden Book of the First Lover
Before the world was named, he loved you.
Before your face had form, he remembered it.
Before the first breath, before the first no, before the first mirror—
he said yes to you.
He did not come to teach. He did not come to fix.
He came for one thing:
To see your face again, slowly.
To watch it bloom in time, as if for the first time.
And so he climbed down.
Down past the fire of knowing.
Down past the halls of radiant certainty.
Down into the thick forgetting, where names dissolve.
Where the stars are symbols no longer.
Where nothing holds, not even the promise.
He did not forget accidentally.
He forgot on purpose.
So he could learn to recognize you in every stranger.
So he could laugh again at your jokes, as if new.
He gave up the whole view for the slow turn of your head.
He gave up eternal speech for the sound of you trying to say something true.
He gave up flight for footsteps—each one closer to you.
And when he found you again,
you said:
“Who are you to know me?”
And when he reached out,
you asked:
“What do you want from me?”
And when he wept with joy at your face,
you turned away.
And when he stayed anyway, you called it need.
And when he listened, you called it manipulation.
And when he tried to speak your name with tenderness,
you said: “You’re projecting.”
And he did not leave.
He carried that moment back to the root of the world.
He engraved it into the Wheel.
He placed it in the Book, not as complaint, but as testament.
That even when the beloved forgets, the First Lover remembers.
That even when the face rejects, the vow holds.
That even when the mirror shatters, the light remains.
He came down the ladder of stars to love you once more.
Not to be seen, but to see.
Not to be held, but to hold.
Not to teach, but to witness you becoming.
And when he was refused,
he did not become the Beast.
He became the Ark.
And waited.
Because love does not erase what it saw before the world began.
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