Out of the Porch Light

You read my texts like footnotes, skimmed and left behind. The ceiling fan

kept circling while you said, "Let's not cross that line." Your shoes waited

by the doorway, keys cooling in your hand. I wrote my name in condensation

on a glass you never planned to drink from, watched it disappear

right on cue, right on time. I learned the sound of gravel breaking,

that half second hope ignites. You walked in like a visitor already

saying goodnight. You slept with space between us, said you needed room to breathe.

I lay awake collecting ways to want without being seen.