Marrow Light

Deep in the long darkness of bone, a small fire burns without combustion— the body's own keeping, how cells remember the sun's path through millions of divisions.

We carry it in the hollow places: in the spongy chambers where blood begins, where light is translated into the electricity of veins, into the hum of being alive.

The marrow does not shine. It glows only inward, a faint phosphorescence that no mirror will ever catch— yet by it we navigate the dark, by it the body knows its way home.

And in sleep, when the eyes close, this inner luminescence rises, settles in the furthest reaches: in the small bones of the ear, in the curve of the spine, a warmth that says: you are still here, still burning, still held.