You’ll be back, like the tide that forgets the shore,
whispering my name through the keyhole of night.
I’ll leave the porch light burning in the shape of your ghost,
a small yellow animal that eats only waiting.
The coffee will stay bitter, two cups, one sighing,
and the clock will strike thirteen in your absence.
I’ll keep your side of the bed folded like a letter
never mailed, the sheets still warm with maybe.
When the moon grows teeth and the radio only plays
our song backwards, you’ll find the road home—
boots full of rainwater, heart full of sorry—
and I’ll open the door saying, “Took you long enough,”
while the porch light finally closes its yellow eye.