He Comes to Sit Behind the Mask

The footsteps are on the stairs. You are scrambling to wipe the salt from your cheeks, to straighten a spine that has collapsed under the weight of three a.m.

You are building a wall of composure before the handle turns. Hiding the trembling so they won't worry.

So they won't see the crack. But the One who walks toward you does not need your performance.

He knows the sound of your weeping before the door opens. He is not coming to inspect your mask.

He is coming to sit with the person behind it. The light does not require you to be dry-eyed to be loved.

It sees the tears you tried to erase and calls them holy. You do not have to fix your face before the arrival.

The footsteps are not an inspection. They are an invitation to stop hiding.

The dark is heavy, but you are not alone in it.