Between Bruises and Blooms

By one in the morning,

the world has given up
pretending it is awake.

Streetlights blink
like tired eyes,
the wind forgets
where it was going,

and even the crickets
lower their voices.

Only this house
still keeps watch.

Its windows,
black as crow feathers,
stare through me
instead of at me.

The porch sighs
beneath every breath of wind,
as though someone unseen
has just shifted in an old rocking chair.

I don’t ask
who still lives here.

Some questions
are kinder unanswered.

I light a cigarette.

The ember glows
like a tiny lighthouse
against an ocean of darkness.

For a moment,
the house seems warmer.

Almost grateful.

Maybe abandoned places
aren’t lonely because they’re empty.

Maybe they’re lonely
because no one stays long enough
to listen.

So I stand there
until the cigarette burns to ash,
until the candle beside me
shrinks into a puddle of wax,

until one in the morning
becomes something later—

and I leave
without looking back.

Not because I am afraid.

Because some houses
deserve to keep
their secrets.