The car idles at the curb,
headlights slicing through fog.
Your name is still on the mailbox,
an epitaph in block letters.
The porch light still burns
as if you're waiting for a friend.
My breath fogs the window,
and I trace circles without thinking.
I sit still, gripping the wheel too hard.
And I wonder if I should have stayed
with you that night.
If I could have been the anchor
to hold you here.
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