The Meadow 93 Love Before Your Porchlight Went Out Alexandra E. Quick The porchlight used to be radiant while his hands held my waist, and they caressed my skin in the summers, I admired his love for me. Yesterday, standing at his door, my breath slowed to feel the stillness in the night, the moonlight wrapped its arms around me, my lungs were held, compressed and vacant. I cannot recall the last time he left me breathless. I preached my reasons while he brushed dew along my lash line and onto his shirt, my head grew heavier while it rested on his shoulder. Now I’m left with just the golden porchlight, and how his tears had looked in it.
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