Every touch
left a fingerprint
in the dark.

Alone, it still glows faintly,
as if still deciding
whether to keep the room alive.

Sometimes
the bulb blinks
once
for no reason,
as if it heard
the name you stopped saying.

A house knows
how to wait.

Even the wires
carry secrets,
humming quietly
with everything
you meant to say
before the light turned off.

---

Veronica Tucker is a poet, physician, and mother of three living in New Hampshire. Her work explores the intersections of care, memory, and being human. Her poems have appeared in One Art, Red Eft Review, and redrosethorns. More can be found at veronicatuckerwrites.com and on Instagram @veronicatuckerwrites.