The Light That Held You Through The Night

The sun is up, but your neck still holds the shape of a head that never rested there. You carried the weight all night, bracing for a touch that never came, and now the morning light feels like an accusation of your solitude.

But listen — the light does not shame you for the empty space beside you. It sees the phantom weight and calls it what it is: a place prepared for love, not a proof of abandonment.

Go home to your own people and tell them how much the light has done for you, how it held you when no one else could. The dawn is not asking you to forget the cold night.

It is asking you to notice that you are still standing. You survived the darkness without the shoulder you needed.

And that survival is not a tragedy. It is the first quiet evidence that the light was enough.