Let the Night Hold You Now

The sun has gone down, and your hand is still suspended in the air, fingers curled around the ghost of what you tried to catch. You are holding the shape of a loss that already hit the ground hours ago.

The reflex to save it was love, but the thing itself is gone. In the quiet of this gathering dark, you do not need to clench your fist against the empty space anymore.

There was a man born blind, not because of sin, but so that the works of God might be displayed in him — sometimes the breaking is the canvas, not the punishment. The light does not ask you to re-catch the fallen thing.

It asks you to lower your arm and let the night hold you instead. The reaching is over.

The holding has begun.