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DARK POETRY | MEMORIES | LIFE | PROSE POETRY
These Old Homes
Let the shadows dance
I leave a light on.
I leave it on, as a kindness.
A kindness, to myself.
The light I leave on is in the entryway to this empty house. Many choose to close the door and leave these old homes. I never could bring myself to pretend these houses never existed.
The fixture has one of those weird bulbs which are labeled as soft white, but somehow cast a yellow hue over everything that was.
I situate myself in the singular piece of furniture which occupies this space. A brown chair on wooden legs in the middle of the living room, resting in the divots drilled deep into this shag green carpet.
Uncomfortable at times, but it’s the chair I’ve known my whole life. When the uncomfortable becomes comforting, you’ve surely reached peak madness.
My amber drink swirls in my glass, pulling ice cubes from their lazy slumber at the bottom.
Shadows cannot exist without light. They cannot exist without me. I won’t survive without them. So, I leave this light on, and watch the shadows dance, laugh, and sing against my wall. They dwell in the moments we shared some time ago.
