Light for a Lost Love
Because laying a light
is the greatest form of kindness,
I will lay a little light for you tonight.
I’ve wondered long about the proper way
to let you know, in your eternal absence,
that I think of you still, and always will.
The candle rests upon the window sill.
I can see it as I sit in my favorite chair,
in the living room; a tree stands by,
with lights upon its every branch:
because it is that time of year
in which light tells us,
more than at other moments,
that we are beloved by someone,
even if we do not know it,
if they are not there –
to fill our weary hours
with thoughts of love,
and to fill our longing hearts
with food for the soul.
The light burns still as I am in bed,
with warm covers pulled over my body,
pillows soft and plush; how can I say
how much these little comforts
mean to me now: and a light
always in the window.
Still, the light burns full on,
even when the sun
is large and radiant outside.
And I wonder what the point of it is:
to fill the day, then lay yourself
for sleep at night,
and do it all again tomorrow.
When you were here, things were clearer;
music was more throbbing,
colors were more vivid,
more contoured was the difference
between right and wrong.
We’d stay up late into the night,
till moonshine blurred with the wishes
we broadcasted to heaven.
But, now, I set the light: it’s all for you,
and burns brilliant in the crystal cutout
of the window we used to sit beside
when we were younger versions of ourselves,
and would watch outside it the progress of life
go by, and cast our wishes to heaven, where
an eternal fire lay ready to receive them.
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