Porch Light

Same time every night.

Street quiet.

Kitchen dark.

House across the road—

porch light stays on.

Funny what you notice

when you’re avoiding your own shit.

Blinds cracked, room black,

another door slammed, “Minding my business” when mine got outta hand.

Across the asphalt, two floors,

white frame,

curtain twitch twice—now I’m filling in names.

Somebody pacing, somebody stops,

glass eats the sound so my head writes the plot.

Maybe that light means “I’m awake.” Maybe “don’t come home.” Maybe I

just need a mystery that ain’t my own.

My hallway got language: three steps—pause—door.

You learn who’s angry by the weight in the floor.

So I watch yours.

Porch light burning on the other side,

don’t know your name,

know the way you hide.

Window goes dark, then it comes alive,

I watch your house so I don’t watch mine.

Tuesday, ten-seventeen—somebody leaves. Thursday,

red car. Friday, no keys.

And you— second-floor shadow when the downstairs dies,

forehead to the glass like the room’s got sides.

I wonder if you see me.

Hate that thought quick.

If you do, you see me kill my light when the hallway

clicks. Maybe from your window I’m the fucked-up house.

That one landed. Let’s not unpack it now.

Your porch flickers once.

Twice. Mine doesn’t work.

Probably a metaphor.

Not doing that verse.

12:46,

curtain jerks fast, red car rolls slow,

brake lights stain the glass.

Doesn’t pull in.

That’s new.

Phone in my hand—who the fuck would I call?

“Hi, I’ve been spying by accident

to avoid my own walls.”

Upstairs light—off.

Kitchen—off. Living room—off.

Porch—still on. Then my hallway creaks.

One step.

Two. Three. I turn.

Nothing.

Look back— your curtain’s open.

Somebody’s looking back.

Can’t see your face.

You can’t see mine.

Two dark windows.

One road dividing the light.

I can close the blinds and deal with this house.

Or stay right here

and find out why yours moved.

Close them

→ “DON’T LOOK OVER HERE”

Keep watching → “CURTAINS”