maybe the light at the end of the tunnel is really a lamp lit in the window.
seems the largest part of my life is a grasping, a strangling, trying to make a good thing and hold on to it as tight as i can.
it turns into a mist, sand, a memory and i open my hands to see nothing but the lines of time itself etched into the very skin around my bones.
but in all this ending there is a light.
a lamp lit in the window that welcomes.
maybe i’ll arrive at the other side at night. the secret then is the secret now – to trust that i am not left alone. to seek in that darkest of nights the light lit for me by the one waiting for my arrival.
to finally make it home.
the light at the end of the tunnel has been seen by those who come back, but they haven’t walked the path to it. they haven’t had the reunion that i will know.
they didn’t climb the stairs inside to find the beds made up with clean sheets waiting and no one yet has told the tale of the sunrise, lamps blown out and the first new day right outside the door.
i want to be there on that morning.