Porchlight Postcards

Headlights cut a ribbon down the county road.

Suitcase full of things I thought I'd outgrow.

The map of midnight led me where the map always knows.

A porch with your name in a script I used to know.

There were postcards on the sill from all the summers gone.

Ink that looked like laughter, stamps of almost wrong.

I traced the edges of the what-if like a photograph and felt the weight of younger promises in my hands.

I lingered by the doorway like a question left to ask,