Late Flicker

That bulb in my kitchen hums,

a sputter chasing dark

over chipped linoleum,

a stubborn whisper under yellow.

I watched it flicker too long,

waiting for light—waiting for words

I should have said, like sparks

caught in the dusk of our last fight.

The coffee mug sits empty,

shadows stretch and break

across the cracked counter,

where silence grew too loud to ignore.

I caught the flash too late,

a sudden flare in stale air—

my voice a broken filament,

fading, burning out

before the night could hold it.