7d
The porch light clicks off behind me—
no ceremony,
no words wrapped in warmth,
just the hush of a door
never meant to stay open.
A moth dances in the dark.
I watch it,
wishing for wings
that don’t tear
in the cold.
My feet know this ache.
They’ve felt it before—
sidewalks splitting like dry lips,
a sky too wide
for someone so small.
I carry silence
in the crook of my arms,
like a child that won’t
stop crying.
The moon
presses its white face
against the windshield.
It doesn’t ask me to leave.
Every hour is a question
with no safe answer.
Where do I go
when even the night
runs out of room?
I’m tired
of learning the weight of keys
that don’t belong to me—
of knocking
on almosts.
If I disappear,
will the world blink?
Or will it just
keep driving?
no ceremony,
no words wrapped in warmth,
just the hush of a door
never meant to stay open.
A moth dances in the dark.
I watch it,
wishing for wings
that don’t tear
in the cold.
My feet know this ache.
They’ve felt it before—
sidewalks splitting like dry lips,
a sky too wide
for someone so small.
I carry silence
in the crook of my arms,
like a child that won’t
stop crying.
The moon
presses its white face
against the windshield.
It doesn’t ask me to leave.
Every hour is a question
with no safe answer.
Where do I go
when even the night
runs out of room?
I’m tired
of learning the weight of keys
that don’t belong to me—
of knocking
on almosts.
If I disappear,
will the world blink?
Or will it just
keep driving?
