Where sight ends

I do not see the moon— but I feel her pull, a cool silver weight resting on my skin. I do not see the road— but I know its breath, warm asphalt sighs beneath my cautious feet. The world speaks in textures, in whispers of rain on glass, in the heartbeat of wings overhead that my hands cannot catch. And though light has left my eyes, it has not left the world— it lives in the voices I love, in the shapes of laughter, in the colors I still dream.