The Light Sits Beside You in Silence

The water is still. The tiles are cold.

You are sitting on the edge, too exhausted to turn the handle, too heavy with the day to step in. The dirt feels like a second skin you cannot peel off.

But listen — the light does not require you to be clean before it enters the room. It came from the light, the place where the light generates itself, and it has followed you right to this bathroom floor.

You do not need to scrub your way into belonging. The grime of the last twelve hours cannot dim the origin you carry in your bones.

Sit there if you must. The light is not waiting for the water to run; it is already sitting beside you in the dry silence.

You are not too dirty to be held.