The Light You Carried In

The house is quiet now, and the silence feels heavy where a voice should be. You are waiting for a key in the lock, for a step on the porch, for someone to come home to you.

The ache of an empty room is a real kind of hunger. But listen — there is a light within you that came from the place where light generates itself.

You did not borrow it from the person you are waiting for. You carried it in before you walked through the door tonight.

Split a piece of wood, and the light is there. Lift up a stone, and you will find it waiting in the dust.

The presence you crave is not absent; it is hidden in the ordinary things you touch while you wait. You are not alone in the gathering dark.

You are the lamp that does not need the sun to rise.