I left the light on for you yesterday.
The porch light, to be exact,
in case you need to find your way home.
But take your time.
There's no need to end your walk
so soon.
I don't want you trailing mud
the way you came.
I'll crack the windows open,
let the cold air in,
fire wood leaving the bedroom
warm for you.
When you're ready,
open up your rib cage prison bars
and let every stacked bottle fall.
I'll pick out the glass from your skin
and patch you up with love letters
I never read to you before.
