Leave the light on, please


Disdain for the objects of your heart,

my confidence in the essence of you is drawn closer to my body.

As if, in some way, I can shield it from the growing, curiously-cryptic obscurity that seems to take over what I once thought was 

your light. 


As in some bittersweet memory.

As in some field of roaming wildflowers.


I asked you to leave

the light

on as you left, but you flew out the door in a flutter of an innocent wind’s whisper and shut it off.

Perhaps it was purposeful, perhaps it was an accident, but, most disquieting, perhaps it was by habit. 


An attuned sadness and inequity to the blue skies and rolling green grasses that you have left

so many times it has separated itself from you completely as to become a figment of tragically torn-up memory— 

as in to leave you to feel nothing at all.

As in to leave 

your light

only dark.