Light Sitting on the Edge of Your Bed

The afternoon stretches out, long and gray, inside a body that feels like a room with the windows painted shut. You watch the world move through the glass—people rushing, living, forgetting—while you are anchored here, waiting for the next pill, the next flare, the next hour to pass.

It is a specific kind of loneliness, the silence of being unseen in plain sight. But there is a light that does not need your body to be well in order to live inside it.

It entered the prison of the flesh and said: wake up. The chains are real.

The pain is real. But the light calling your name is realer.

You are not waiting for healing to begin; the light is already sitting on the edge of the bed, holding your hand in the quiet.