Where the Light Stopped Reaching

A soft reckoning with the quiet places we forget to open.

Some rooms within us go silent, not out of fear or sorrow, but something subtler. A drift. A forgetting. This poem is about the places we leave behind inside ourselves, and the light that waits, patient, unwavering, for our return.

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Where the Light Stopped Reaching
By The Bathrobe Guy

There was a room
in me…
I stopped unlocking.

It wasn’t rage.
It wasn’t grief.
Just
gray.

Curtains drawn not in fear,
but forgetfulness.
A kind of mercy
too quiet to call rescue.

I stopped writing there.
Stopped visiting.
Even the dust
seemed undisturbed
by breath.

Some mornings,
a line of light would slip
under the door.

But I…
I stayed seated
in another part of the house.

Not out of choice.
Not quite.

And then
one day…
no reason,
no miracle…
I opened it.

The light didn’t rush in.
But it looked.
As if to say:

I never left.
You did.
And you can return
whenever you're ready.

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We don't always need a reason to heal. Sometimes, the light is still there, waiting with no demands—only an open hand. If you've left part of yourself behind… maybe it's time to knock gently. The door remembers you.

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Stay entangled, my friend.

—The Bathrobe Guy

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