Between Bruises and Blooms

Maybe ghosts smoke.

Maybe that’s why
the air felt heavy
before I even lit the bowl.

The candle burned low,
casting impossible shadows
across the ivy-covered walls.

Something shifted upstairs.

Not once.

Twice.

I told myself
it was the house settling.

The house answered
with another footstep.

The smoke curled
through a broken window.

It never came back out.

Like someone inside
had accepted my offering.

When I finally left,
I glanced over my shoulder.

There was another light
in the upstairs window.

Mine
had already gone out.