Today the light arrives without knocking,
settles on the table like it belongs there.
I don’t ask who left it on
or what it’s trying to replace.
There was a time your silence
rearranged the furniture of my days,
when absence leaned so hard on the walls
I mistook it for weather.
Now it passes through me
like a former language –
recognizable, but no longer necessary.
I carry my sentences without your echo.
This light is not hope.
It doesn’t promise anything.
It simply stays,
proof that even discarded voices
learn how to burn on their own.
I don’t forget what happened.
I just don’t kneel to it.
The wound has learned my name;
it answers now
when I call it history.