We waited for the sky to break,
for heaven to tear like fabric,
for light to pour through a wound in the clouds
and name us worthy or not.

We imagined a figure descending,
robed in certainty,
flanked by the music of judgment,
fire threading through the air like a final answer.

We thought it would end something.
We thought it would begin something else.

But the sky kept its silence.
The clouds passed, indifferent.
The world remained,
unfinished, breathing, unresolved.

And then, not from above
but from within the quiet spaces
we rarely enter,
something stirred.

Not a voice, not exactly,
more like the falling away of one.
More like a remembering
that had never been learned.

The distance collapsed.

The watcher and the waited-for,
the seeker and the revealed,
the prayer and the one who listens,
all dissolved into a single, unbroken presence.

No trumpets.
No spectacle.
Just the unbearable simplicity
of what is.

The light did not arrive,
it was uncovered.
The kingdom did not descend,
it was recognized.

Here, in the ordinary pulse of being,
in the breath that moves without permission,
in the quiet awareness that remains
when every name is set down,

here, it is.

Not coming.
Not going.
Not other.

The Infinite,
wearing the fragile costume of a life,
playing every role at once,
the Father, the Son, the witness, the world.

Not beyond you.
Not above you.

But as you.

And the second coming,
long awaited,
was never an event in time,

only this:

the moment the veil forgets itself,
and the Divine,
looking through your eyes,
recognizes its own reflection.