Lyric

The last guest had gone

The stair kept still

I carried one small flame

Past the folded will

The plates had been cleared

But the walls knew more

A shadow held its posture

Near the second floor

I did not call his name

I only crossed the hall

The wick leaned toward the varnish

And answered for us all

Lamplight found the frame

And the painted eyes remembered his name

I only turned the wick

I never called it blame

The wall gave back the shape

Of what he left unstained

Lamplight found the frame

And nothing looked away

His face was almost absent

In the lower gold

A mouth the painter softened

So the truth looked old

The roses in the border

Had darkened at the seam

As if they had been listening

Long before me

I did not raise my voice

I did not need the door

The portrait held the evening

Like a debt inside its core

Lamplight found the frame

And the painted eyes remembered his name

I only turned the wick

I never called it blame

The wall gave back the shape

Of what he left unstained

Lamplight found the frame

And nothing looked away

The house had learned discretion

From the people it contained

Every locked-up conversation

Had settled into grain

I stood beneath the portrait

With my hands composed and clean

Not a woman being watched

But the witness in between

I used to lower my eyes

When the room became unkind

Now every silent corner

Turns its face to mine

I did not need revenge

To enter wearing flame

I only let the light

Put gold around the shame

Lamplight found the frame

And the painted eyes remembered his name

I only turned the wick

I never called it blame

The house returned the shape

Of what he tried to fade

Lamplight found the frame

And nothing looked away

When I lowered the flame

The portrait kept its stare

I left the hall in darkness

But the truth stayed there