Mr. Sandman

but for a thin, deceitful fraction of time, in the disconcerting wake between the things you want and the things you have, I believed he was there, lying in bed with me

wake up

bête noire

carefully cupping a tremulous heart with blood feathers
caging its writhing muscle inside angular confines of pink bone
slippery pieces, thick with asphyxiation, slump against one another
and every involuntary pulse threatens outright dismemberment

firmly callused fingertips freshen indolent wounds that will never heal
because they have sprouted deep between the root of survival and my solar plexus
a low-lidded third eye stoically observes from above while viscus drips across barren hips
and it is all I can do to just breathe

haplessly peel back layers hopelessly papered to someone else's walls
salvaging star-crossed hands to prevent purple offal from colliding with silk
plucked from beneath tenuously timid toes as this chest lurches forward
and stumbles along to a whimpering score of weakly gurgling flow

(on the bright side, there is no chance of falling if you never bore full weight)

time is tumbling towards us

Disquiet nights and thoughtless turbulence -
disturbulence -
- it leaves me blinking into the grainy darkness.
There are three boys in my bed (twelve legs between us).
If I am careful, no one will be the wiser.
It's 3AM and "trying" to sleep is a perfect example of futility.

Yesterday afternoon I hit a wall. Expecting to stumble heavy and dormant into sleep ends with nothing but disappointment . Energy reserves caked with torpor invite only vague disinterest in going the "extra mile."

I need my clock to reset.

-- One final job interview. Did you know these things take three days? THREE DAYS.
That's three days of being "on." Being "charming." Being "engaged." Being attentive, and thoughtful, interested
(and interesting).

But how can I be interested (and interesting) when all I want in the world is to know what in the world I want?

___________________

We are so glad to have you. 
He reaches for my hand. 
Welcome back. 

10:21

I used to gasp and feign surprise, fingers brushing my collar bone. 

I can't believe you remembered, I would say sweetly. 

Season and space were irrelevant when the clock flipped. 

Twenty one minutes after ten. 

Ten twenty one.

Day or night. 

10:21

Happy birthday, baby! He would turn to me and smile so brightly he made strangers believe it was true. 

Of course it was a silly second of nonsense. But even then he was unhappy because my "birthday" came around twice in a normal day and his only once in the afternoon. 

I wonder if he still plays the game. For how many days or months or years will he silently think of me when the clock strikes while she is none the wiser?

Soak

She likes to feel the slow swell of freedom from the source.
Flooding from the spout to drown the day, hot vapors swirl overhead, clinging to quiet lips and settling into ghostly shadows on the glass. Flushed thighs demarcate a vulnerable shade of pink and she slips her toes beneath the tumbling heat

thankful to be alone.

Hooded eyes are cloaked with careless smudges of this morning's mascara but she does not bother. Legs slide against one another, smiling because they are smooth. Fitzgerald propped on the seat (desperate to be devoured) - but languid arms are heavy.

And when this rescue burns cold, it is cast into a scientific spiral of pity and lavender, recklessly slurping and sucking as she stands - it is gone. Saturated foot prints soaking into the hardwood prove that this sort of solitude is fleeting.

Fourteen Ghosts

I am sipping from a cool, flimsy plastic water bottle that feels utterly out of place. A dank scent settles in the air space between floral patterned drapes and other pieces. It is a feature that single handedly betrays the age of this house. A polished brass chandelier is suspended, motionless. Smooth, antique bar back chairs are tucked around the perimeter of a burnished mahogany dining table. I am perched at the head, playing host to fourteen ghosts.

It is good to be away for a while, but this isn't quite what I expected. Gradually, I have learned the cadence of the house. I anticipate its creaky floorboards. Hollow clunking of pipes within the walls no longer triggers me to glance over my shoulder as I work. This is the last weekend I'll spend alone here because Laila is coming to visit next weekend, and Jack will be here to accompany me on the long drive home.

I wonder if you have to choose a single place to haunt. As a ghost, I mean. Or do you get to flutter between all of the places you loved? Is there a limit to the places a phantom might join you for dinner?