Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Shadows and Ghosts

He opens his eyes, reassures himself that I am here, not a figment, the weight of me in his arms not enough to disprove dreaming, and falls back asleep.
But that was yesterday. Or perhaps the day before. Or a lifetime before.
I'm not sure anymore. He's not here now.
I stare at the blankness of my bed, cool, smooth. A bird caws, the others sleep on.
Sun still down. Stars fade, taking the silence.
It wakes up and leaves to find a new home.
No train whistle to replace it, provide harmony to the dissonance.
And he is not here, not here to keep me warm, to wrap around me and slide his fingers up my thighs. Not here to keep the monsters away, to lock up the demons that chew my brain.
My bed is empty.
All it holds is me. That's not enough.
It holds a shell. My words pour out, spill over the edge, puddle on the floor.
See the light peaking in, and flee.
Farewell, goodbye. Silence, wait for us, we are on your tail.
We won't be back.
You've used up your allotment.
You are as empty as your bed. Replace us, but you'll still be empty.
Ghost fades, put my hand out to touch the space. No trace.
When you are gone, were you ever here?

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