You left the kitchen light on when you went,

and I have not had the heart to turn it off.

The moths have started asking after you.

Some mornings I still make the coffee for two,

then stand there holding both cups like a question nobody thought to ask me out loud,

until the second one goes cold.

It is a small house and you were never loud,

but the quiet here has learned your name.

So come home, or send a song,

or tell me which of these lights is mine to keep.