XI. The Velvet Dark.

The light outside flickers and beckons.

One by one, my friends have gone.

I have stayed.

Grown singular in the best of ways,

tenderly feral, beautifully lit,

in the company of my own mind.

I would have taken the apple.

Opened the box, with steady hands.

But I do not long to leave the cave.

Here, I am whole.

Here, the dark is not empty, but full.

Perhaps I’ve become a little odd.

But I am clear.

A wickless flame.

I trace constellations on the ceiling.

The shadows know my name.

They soften at dusk,

make small declarations of dust.

You’ll say I’ve mistaken shadow for truth.

I say: not all light is kind.

Some blinds. Some burns.

This dark—

this velvet dark—

is where I see best.

There’s a kind of love in this.

Undramatic. Undivided.

Not the flare of candles for guests,

a light left on for myself.

The kettle sings.

My thoughts unfold like steam.

Unforced, ascending, soft.

Even silence feels spoken to,

in rooms that remember me.

Not waiting. Not missed.

Not a gap in the plan.

Let the world whirl.

Let it glitter and twirl

in its sequined haste.

I am the quiet that holds its shape.

I am the hearth I once searched for.

And I am home.

Always home.

The stars do not rush.

The moon does not explain.

Tell me, why should I?

I have touched stillness

and found it alive,

a living pulse beneath the hush.

If nothing else arrives,

I remain—

whole,

in a universe of my own making.

Not lonely,

just vast.

And if you come by,

if the world bruises you blue,

I’ll still be here.

Tea warm.

Light low.

Quiet enough to hear you.

Not waiting.

No.

Just here.

Steady.

Lit.

Home.

Always home.

For what it’s worth,

-Charlene Iris

One thought at a time.

One truth at a time. 

Because some epiphanies stay with you.