Porch Light
We are laughing—
and I forget about what.
I hear it:
the board loosening in the floor,
exposing the space you take,
reminding me where the doors live.
The ones you could use to leave.
Not now. Not yet.
But the porch light is there.
You check your watch or you lean back—
reminding me of last week’s ambivalence
You forgot. I did not.
Fear sharpens into words:
“I think we need to talk.”
Your face changes.
Laughter stops. “About what?”
Now I scramble for reasons to
justify the crack I want to widen beneath us.
To explain the insecurity
I dragged out from under the couch
to ruin this perfectly good night.
I craft the list: you have been distant,
we do not connect like we used to, I feel you pulling away.
Only partly true. Still damning enough.
You try to understand.
Try to fix something I broke to feel safe.
I watch you trying.
I want to take it back.
I don’t.
I wait for words you do not have.
Regret burns my throat.
Tastes like mint.
Your words almost enough.
We are laughing again.
Just not as easily as before.
The matches still lit by the porch light.
~Kayla
©Just Kayla, 2025
Ooooh I felt this. Reminded me of hard conversations I swept under the rug as to not ruin a good night. But nothing ever gets resolved. But the light still flickers because the love is still there but it flickers because it's dimming...
Let the dust fall between the floorboards. Porch light lingers long waves can’t reach between cracks of yawning dawn with the door 🚪 closed to a private scene where feather-dusters tickle laughing.