The Light Rests Where Words Got Stuck

The house is quiet now, but your throat still burns from the words you swallowed yesterday. They sit inside you like heavy stones, turning the silence into something sharp.

You feel the ache of what you did not say, the weight of the apology or the truth that stayed locked behind your teeth. But listen — the light does not need your voice to be whole.

It was there before you spoke, and it is there now in the swallowing. There is a presence that knows the words you never formed.

It hears the silence between your breaths. The light does not wait for you to explain yourself to be near you.

It is already resting in the very place where the words got stuck. You do not have to cough them up to be held.