The Light Remains When The Touch Fades

The door has closed. The room is quiet.

But your skin still burns where their hand rested hours ago. It is a phantom weight, a ghost of touch that refuses to fade even when the person is long gone.

You keep waiting for the sensation to lift, for the memory to cool, but it lingers like heat in the pavement after sunset. The light does not ask you to scrub it away or pretend it isn't there.

It sits with you in the fading gray, acknowledging that what was felt was real. You came from the light, and to that place of pure origin, you will return—where no shadow can stick to your skin.

The touch was a moment, but the light within you is the only thing that remains when the night takes everything else.