Poetry

by Scribe Leaf Library · 1 min read · 0 views

Leave the porch light burning past midnight, not for burglars, not for moths, but for the version of someone who might come home late and needs to know this door still knows their name. Leave it on through the argument you're still not over, through the year they don't call much, through the doubt that creeps in around eleven asking if this waiting is worth the electric bill. It is. A lit window says: I have not moved on without you. I have not locked this up and called it finished. Come home whenever you're ready. I'll still be up. Leave the light on. Some prayers are just electricity, aimed at a door.