Firefly Knowing

Starting to let yourself heal and realize it's ok to let the light in again.

Your shadow touches mine,
a shy hello,
a hesitant brush of presence
that doesn’t ask for anything
but still lingers.

Your heart opens a fraction,
just enough for the world
to slip in gently—
a soft draft of light,
a warmth you don’t flinch from this time.

A quiet glow follows you,
unassuming, tender,
the kind of light that doesn’t announce itself
but gathers in the corners
like dawn learning your name.

You’re not fixed,
but you’re less broken than yesterday—
the fractures still visible,
but no longer sharp enough
to cut your own hands.

You’re blind to the path,
but not the pull beneath your ribs,
that subtle tug toward something
you can’t name yet
but feel anyway.

Knowing settles in your chest,
small and steady,
warm as a single firefly
testing its glow—
not a blaze,
not a promise,
just a flicker
that refuses to go out.

And for a moment,
you let yourself believe
that maybe softness isn’t a threat,
that maybe shadows can touch
without swallowing,
that maybe you can walk forward
without seeing the whole road—
guided only by the faint,
persistent light
you’re learning to carry.