Once she turned to me and said, “The light has never left me.”
Beside her chair lay a pad titled: Instructions for the Delivery Man.
This is how she let me in.
Knock once
Then wait.
Not hesitation—
anticipation.
I savor the pause
before the world enters.
Bring nothing I can buy for myself.
No chocolates.
No flowers.
No hollow words wrapped in shiny paper.
Bring wine—
the expensive kind.
The one that makes us laugh
before the cork hits the floor.
Put it on the counter
without asking for a corkscrew.
I’ve always been ready for the good stuff,
my glass was lifted long before the wine arrived.
When I open the door,
don’t ask “How are you?”
I’m still here—
that’s how I am.
Instead, say—
“The light has never left you.”
And I’ll say—
“You’re damn right.
Now help me turn it up.”
Step inside
like you’ve been here before.
Like you know this place is full of laughter,
echoes of songs,
and the perfume of memories.
Tell me I look dangerous in this robe.
Mean it.
Or fake it well enough
that I don’t care.
I wore it to dinner once.
They asked if it was lingerie.
I said—
Only if you’re lucky.
Touch me
like you’re remembering something from 1969—
the night I wore nothing under that suede fringe vest…
the motel room with the purple sheets…
the song on the radio
I still can’t hear
without smiling.
Lean in so close
I can smell the road on you—
gasoline,
sweat,
and the whisper of trouble.
Ask if I still dance.
Don’t wait for an answer.
Push back the chairs.
Spin me
until the room forgets its corners,
until joy catches in our throats
like the punchline of a joke
we both needed to hear.
Don’t apologize
for your hands
finding the places where time has changed me.
I earned those.
They are medals, not mistakes.
Every line on my body keeps its own diary.
Treat them like national landmarks.
Explore them like topography—
valleys,
ridges,
the long road home.
And just when the laughter’s loud enough to cover it—
let your hand rest
where the soft has thinned,
where a surgeon once took more
than she gave back.
Don’t rush.
Let it be a constellation,
a symphony of survival—
each scar a star,
a galaxy of victories
mapped across my skin.
Touch it like you’re telling me
I am still luminous here.
Because the light has never left me.
The light has never left me.
When you leave—
leave slowly.
Let the door stay open
long enough
for the night air to wander in,
carrying the music forward.
Because I am still wild.
Still bright.
Still dangerous.
Still taking deliveries.
My instructions are simple:
Arrive like a storm.
Leave like a song.
And make sure
I’m still humming you
when the sun comes up.
And if ever that song grows quiet,
listen closer—
you’ll find the music within remains.
The music lingers, even when the band has gone home.
The song belongs to the soul, not the singer.
The light has simply
changed its dwelling.
