The Cup You Never Touched

The sun has gone down, and the house is quiet enough to hear the water running. You are washing a single cup you never even touched, scrubbing it until your knuckles turn white.

You tell yourself the water isn't hot enough to sting, but your skin knows the truth. The light does not ask you to keep scrubbing a stain that isn't there.

It sees the redness on your hands and calls it what it is: a fear that you are not clean enough to rest. There is a mercy waiting for you that has nothing to do with how spotless you can make this kitchen sink.

The one who loves you is not inspecting the glass; he is holding the hand that shakes. Put the cup down.

The water is hot, and you are allowed to feel it. The night is not a test you have to pass before you are loved.