A Haunting
On endless nights
when the thunder in my head
is louder than
the thunder beyond my window
and the dark denies me rest,
I have to rub bloodshot eyes,
for her young face imprints itself
even beneath closed lids.
The departed have not moved on
from the gravity of this place and time,
emotional chains remain.
What does she want of me?
It was a short torrid affair,
why this lifetime haunting?
You cannot dream someone out of your soul.
Why does she paint herself before me,
and why do I disappear
when she looks upon my worn-out being?
I wash my eyes and often wonder
if it is really I that haunt
her.
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