Resting in the Light That Never Left

The house is quiet now, but your hands still burn with the ghost of a touch that never landed. You reached out into the dark, hoping to find someone, and found only air—yet the sensation of absence feels heavier than any presence could have been.

It is a specific kind of loneliness, this phantom heat on skin that wanted to be held. But listen: the light does not require a body to hold you.

It is already here, in the very room where you sit alone, split open in the wood of your chair and hidden under the stone of your silence. You are not waiting for someone to arrive; you are resting in the one who has never left.

The burning is not a sign that you are empty; it is the memory of a fire that was placed inside you long before the night began.