You rise again,
hanging quiet in the dark,
as you always do:
Watching. Waiting.
Listening.
You don’t knock.
Never have.
I feel your eyes:
Patient. Waiting.
I never ask if you have time.
You always do.
Even when the night is crowded,
and others talk,
you leave a little space for me.
I speak softly now.
Not out of fear,
but awe.
Some things are meant to be whispered ,
told only in the quiet.
Tonight, the same story:
a name I can’t forget,
a silence I can’t fill,
an ache that never
quite hardens into grief.
I know you’ve heard it all before.
From ships lost at sea,
from children with dreams,
from women like me,
carrying things no one else can see.
And still, you stay.
You,
who shines brightly
without apology.
You,
who understands.
Who cares when no one else does.
I’ll keep speaking,
in pieces and pauses,
as long as you’re near.
And when I have no more to say,
please,
just stay.
Just be there,
quiet and bright.
Unmoving.
Unchanging.
Stay ever-present,
listening to my prayers
the way you always have.
When morning comes,
soft and unchanging,
I won’t need answers.
I just know you were here,
that somewhere in the darkness,
I wasn’t alone.
Emilie Turner 