You handed me a world.

It had windows that wouldn’t open,

light that behaved.

I learned the weather by observation,

not faith.

No guarantees. No clauses.

I struck the match.

I know that

The house brightened once,

then remembered it was ash.

Since then my mind keeps searching for you

the way a lighthouse wastes itself,

methodical, exact,

while you chase rainbows that promise

continuations, not returns.

You will not come back

unless I set a fire in your backyard,

and even then the heat would be

recognition, not mercy.

I wish you happiness.

You blew me off like dust from a book

you’d already decided not to read.

When joy fits you again,

you’ll see me, briefly,

in a red dress, correctly lit.

Not an apology. A proof.

My mind keeps its midnight.

Yours has been laundered, starched,

put away on the correct shelf.

If you looked back,

you’d learn how dark “home” can be

when the lights behave too well.

Maybe you were cursed.

Curses are simply contracts with fancy fonts.

They lapse. They always do.

The spell breaks, I suspect,

the moment I watch you suffer

and do not intervene.

Again: I wish you happiness.

Again: you brushed me off.

Again: when you are finally happy,

you’ll find me.

polite, exact,

in that red dress,

not waiting, only finished.