There is a room
we do not use.
Still,
some evenings
I leave the light on.
Not for you.
At least
that is what I tell myself.
The chair
where it has always been.
Dust gathering
along the sill.
Nothing waiting.
Nothing prepared.
Outside,
cars pass,
someone walks a dog,
a plane lowers itself
toward the city.
Ordinary things
continuing.
I have stopped
imagining footsteps.
Stopped rehearsing
what I would say
if suddenly
there you were.
Mostly.
There are days
I think the story
has already ended
and we are simply
the last to know.
Other days
something shifts.
A birthday.
A photograph.
A name spoken
by someone else.
And the whole unfinished thing
breathes again.
I used to believe
every story required
an ending.
Forgiveness.
Return.
A final door
closing.
Something.
Now I am learning
there are lives
we carry
without knowing
what they become.
No verdict.
No last page.
Only this evening.
The room upstairs.
The light
I sometimes leave on
and sometimes
do not.
