Once,
longing
was something
that would
one day end.

Now
it wakes
with me
in the mornings.

Evenings,
we watch
the lights
together.

Sometimes
I don't say
your name.

Still,
there is
a place
at the table.

It doesn't
burn me
the way it did.

But
no one
takes its place
either.

One chair
always empty.

One light
always on.

How long
it's been like this,
I don't know.

Nor which of them
I left
for you.
Anymore.