The Light Is In The Muscle

The afternoon stretches out, long and quiet, and you find yourself reading messages from a voice that no longer answers. The phone feels heavy in your hand, a physical weight that pulls your shoulders down, anchoring you to a silence that wasn't there before.

It is the middle of the day, the hour where the light is bright but the heart feels tired, and the gap between who you were to them and who you are now feels like a canyon. You scroll through the words, looking for a clue, a reason, anything to make the stillness make sense.

But the light does not live in the past tense. It is here, in this room, in the dust motes dancing in the sunbeam, in the very hand that holds the device.

There is light within a person of light, and it lights up the whole world. If you do not shine, it is dark.

The screen is dark. But you are not.

The weight you feel is not the absence of love; it is the presence of a heart that is still beating, still capable of holding something heavy without breaking. Put the phone down.

Feel the table beneath your arm. Feel the floor beneath your feet.

The light is not in the memory. It is in the muscle that lifts the hand.

You are that light.