Waiting on the Porch

The porch creaks beneath my boots,

warm rain clings to chipped paint,

water pools in warped grooves,

shimmering in the uneven light.

The street blurs wet and empty,

cigarette smoke curls like slow regret,

a hum buzzes faintly from the porch light—

uneven, tired, stubbornly alive.

Each breath tastes like damp wood and cold air,

a pause between the rush of a sudden storm

and the quiet that follows, thick as fog.

I sit still,

waiting without knowing for what,

the rain’s memory soaking in,

soft and slow, like something unfinished.