We Speak in Light

We don’t always speak in words.

Sometimes, we speak in glances—

A look held just long enough

To say, I’m still here.

Sometimes, it’s the pause before leaving a room,

The way one hand hovers,

Almost reaching,

Then pulling back like a tide.

We speak in the flicker of porch lights left on,

The softness of a blanket folded at the end of a couch,

A mug of tea placed quietly beside

Someone too tired to ask.

There are languages in the quiet—

In the breath shared between sighs,

In the silence that doesn’t press

But rests gently, like fog over a lake.

We speak in light.

In the lamp someone forgets to turn off,

Because they want the house to feel full when you return.

In the crack under the door where warmth spills out

And says, This room is safe.

Sometimes we forget the words.

Or the words fall apart in our mouths.

But the meaning lives on—

Carried in small acts,

Like footprints in snow

That say, You’re not walking alone.

We speak in shared songs on long car rides,

In laughter that surprises even us,

In tears that don’t ask for explanation.

We speak when we choose to stay.

When we show up.

When we don’t need to be right

To be kind.

And yes,

Sometimes we speak in pain.

In slammed doors,

In long silences,

In messages typed and deleted

But felt all the same.

Still—

The light speaks louder.

It whispers from windows cracked open,

From letters saved in drawers,

From the way we still hope

Even when we say we’ve stopped.

So when you can’t find the words,

Don’t be afraid.

They are not the only way.

Let your presence speak.

Let your hands speak.

Let the light in your chest

Find its way to another.

We are never voiceless,

Not truly.

We just speak in different languages.

And some of them

Shine.