The only light I see
is the ghost of your porch bulb
swinging in the wind I sent
across three states of regret.
I follow it like a drunk compass,
boots full of riverwater,
heart full of unmailed letters.
Every mile marker is a promise I broke,
every white line a stitch in the dark.
When the bulb finally burns out,
I’ll keep walking—
your afterimage printed on my eyelids
brighter than any dawn I deserve.