She set her heart like a lantern
at the edge of a long dark road,
polishing the glass with trembling hands,
believing light could call someone home.
Twice she opened the door to summer—
twice the wind walked through her.
Love came like a ship at dusk,
then slipped its anchor,
choosing the quiet of deep water
over the shoreline where she stood.
Now she gathers the wick,
lets the flame sink low,
and closes the glass.
Not bitter—only still.
Tired of the longing,
She does not curse the night.
She simply stops waiting for the dawn.
