Between Bruises & Blooms

I left the candle burning
on the porch.

Not for luck.

For whoever
still called this place home.

The bowl glowed
between my fingers
like a tiny harvest moon.

Each exhale
slipped beneath the door.

Each inhale
felt borrowed.

The trees stood perfectly still.

No crickets.

No birds.

Even the wind
seemed unwilling
to interrupt
whatever conversation
the dead were having
inside those walls.

I never saw a ghost.

But when I stood to leave,

someone whispered,

“Thank you.”

The candle burned brighter.

Then every window
went dark
at once.