Watching from the Street

The light flickers.

On. Off. On.

I stand here at the sidewalk edge

like I'm waiting for permission

to cross, but I won't cross anywhere.

Just watching the porch where I used to sit,

where the paint was green then,

or blue, or I'm remembering it wrong.

The bulb dies a little more with each pulse.

On. Off. Longer off now.

There's a moth caught in the intervals,

circling in the moments when the light comes back,

forgetting the dark the second it returns,

doing it again, again, again.

Like it's new every time.

Like it doesn't remember the light will leave.

I could go up there. Walk across the lawn.

Ring the bell. Say something.

The porch is not locked. The porch doesn't belong to anyone anymore.

But I stand here instead,

watching the moth,

watching the flicker,

waiting for the bulb to die completely

so I can stop watching,

so I can turn around and walk back to my car,

so I can stop being the person who stands on the sidewalk

at the place where I used to live,

watching the light give up.

It flickers again.

I'm still here.