A House with the Light Still On

Even death
would turn its gaze away,
ashamed…
not of the end
but of the patience I bore for you,
each breath a silent vow
to a silence that never broke.

I kept the light on.
Not out of habit.
Not for warmth.
But because somewhere,
between your leaving and my staying,
the glow became prayer.

Even my dreams
man, those faithful, flickering fools
grew weary
of chasing shadows in your shape.
But I still sleep
as if the night
were an altar
and your return
a sacrament.

I stayed
long after reason
gathered its things
and left me with memory.
Even madness looked back,
shook its head,
and said nothing.

You will find me
on the last page
of the book that you never finished
my words waiting
like hands still flipping
through unopened chapters.

The story ended
you didn’t know it
but I left a blank page
just in case
you remembered
how to write yourself home.

With this my heart,
my heart is a prisoner of hope,
though serving life without parole,
it counts the days
not in sorrow,
not in jest,
but in maybes.
Each one
a soft knock
at the door
although in reality
you never walk through.