Her Steady Light

A poem from my book Luck`s a Liar

Her Steady Light

Her apartment smells of old pages,
ink and dust, shelves sagging under novels
she reads like they’ll save her.
I remember that winter, ’25,
when I was scraping bottom,
pockets empty, heart heavier than the snow outside.
She opened her door,
handed me a mug of tea,
steam curling like a promise she didn’t owe.

Her hands shake sometimes,
that damn heart of hers ticking uneven,
like a clock that knows it’s running out.
She frets over small things;
a late bill, a cracked cup,
the world’s weight on her narrow shoulders.
But she was there,
always,
when the dark chewed me raw.

I slouch on her couch,
city’s hum clawing at the glass,
her voice soft, steady,
cutting through my haze.
I hate how I need her, but she stays,
her eyes sharp like a match in the dark.
She doesn’t ask for thanks,
just sits,
holding the storm at bay.

I light a cigarette outside,
watch the smoke twist into the night,
thinking of her, alone with her books,
her heart stuttering but never cold.
The city hums,
indifferent.
I’m still here,
because she was.
And that’s enough to keep standing.