by James Miller
In the dark, the yellow streetlight off the windowpane is soft like my tired heart that slowly beats towards dawn. There is not enough money for me to keep this house. I have spent all my time writing poems in the dark. Still, there is this hour. There is this light. There is always something in the dark. Christ, when you arrive, I am often asleep dreaming of death. Though tonight, it is not death, but rather the end of life as I know it. How will I live without the warmth of these pillows or the musk of my books growing old on the shelves? If only for this hour, perhaps I can be that someone who gives up everything to follow you? For my house, my car, my wallet. They will all soon be gone. But by the grace of a streetlight, I will make myself happy to leave them. Please just tell me where to go.