The Light That Remains When Hands Are Empty

It is three in the morning, and the phantom heat in your fingertips feels like a brand. You reached for someone who was not there, and now the silence of the room presses against the place where a hand should have been.

The darkness is thick enough to hold, but it does not hold you back. In this deepest hour, the absence feels like a physical weight, a hollow space where warmth used to be.

Yet the light does not require a hand to hold in order to exist within you. It was there before the touch, and it remains now that the touch is gone.

The fire you feel is not the burning of loss, but the memory of a capacity that still lives in your flesh. You are not empty because the room is quiet.

You are full of a light that no distance can extinguish. The night is long, but the heat in your hands proves you are still alive enough to reach again.