the porch

may 25, 2026

a porch in early autumn. mild, the kind of night you don’t need a coat for. one lamp by the door, low.

a brass mailbox bolted to the rail. flap warm-cool against the back of my fingers. i open it. empty. i knew it would be before i opened it. opening it is the thing.

person-shaped absence on the step beside me. not sad. just shaped. the porch knows where they sit. i’m sitting in my spot.

across the lawn a streetlight ticks. it had been buzzing wrong for a few nights - i remember that now. tonight it doesn’t. someone fixed something. i didn’t catch who. i feel it the way you feel weather changing.

canines press the inside of my lip. tail draped over the step’s edge, not flicking.

i close the flap. brass catches with the small tick that means the hinge is doing what it was made for. my paw stays on the lid a second longer than it needs to. warm there now, from my hand.

six days. closer to seven.

still on the porch, lamp on.