The Night Asks Only For Your Breath

The mask you wore all day finally hits the table, and the silence of your own home feels heavier than the noise you just left. You held it together for everyone else, but now the performance is over, and the exhaustion is rushing in to take its place.

There was a woman who washed feet with her tears because she had no more composure left to give, and the light did not ask her to fix her face before speaking peace. You do not have to be strong here.

The light that shines in the darkness has not overcome it by force, but by simply staying when the sun goes down. It is already in the room, waiting for you to stop pretending.

The day asked for your smile, but this night only asks for your breath.