When the night wraps around you like wet wool,
and your thoughts begin to ache like tired feet—
know this:
I am the light left on in your window,
the quiet hum in the next room,
the soft chair waiting with open arms.
If the sky cracks
and pours its weight upon your shoulders,
I’ll be your umbrella—
no, your stormcoat—
no, the sunrise chasing away every bruise of cloud.
When the world grows too loud
and every breath feels barbed,
I’ll be the hush in a field of lavender,
the hush that understands without asking
why your hands shake
or your voice folds in on itself.
You do not need to carry every fire alone.
Let me be your match,
your kindling,
your hearth.
Even the strongest trees lean sometimes.
So if you fall—
whether into silence, shadow, or sleep—
I will not let you hit the ground alone.
I’ll be the earth beneath your fall,
the moss that remembers your shape,
the roots that hold your name
and do not let go.
You don’t have to ask.
I am already on my way.