Peripheral

I watched the porch lights flicker on for them— the laughter soft, the timing always right. The chairs were full. I hovered at the stem of every plan, then vanished with the night. A window cracked, a voice that called too late, a message read, replied to days behind. No slammed door, just a pattern I could trace— how even warmth turns cruel when misaligned. I asked for little. Always just enough to be let in. To pull a corner seat. But glow is not the same as being loved. And unaddressed omissions aren't discreet. I stayed outside until I felt the chill— no hate, no love, just quiet, quiet, kill.