Between Bruises and Blooms

I carried only a candle.
It seemed wrong
to arrive empty-handed.

The house had been waiting
far longer than I had.

I sat beneath its broken windows,
watching the flame shiver
though the evening
had forgotten the wind.

The ivy climbed patiently,
burying doors,
claiming chimneys,
covering old mistakes
one leaf at a time.

Somewhere upstairs,

a floorboard sighed.

Not loudly.

Not enough
to frighten me away.

Just enough
to remind me

that abandoned
is not the same
as alone.

When I finally stood to leave,
the candle burned brighter
for just a moment—

as if someone
had smiled.