The Kind that Remains

I still leave the porch light on

for a shadow that no longer comes,

its small amber circle

waiting in the dark.

Some mornings

I catch your ghost in the kitchen,

sunlight caught in a coffee cup,

your laughter hiding

where the steam disappears.

I kept the little things.

A song with your fingerprints on it.

A flower pressed between old pages.

The warmth left behind

in a place you once slept.

Years could burn the house down

and I would still search the ashes

for something worth saving,

even if all I found

was the shape of your hand.

That is the cruelest part of love.

Sometimes it doesn't die

when the door closes.

Sometimes it becomes

the light you leave burning

for someone

who will never see it.