House of Spirits
There’s a
rap, rap, rapping
on my bedroom door.
The rocking chair
creaks.
The ceiling fan light,
overhead, winks
in flirtatious rhythm.
Who else but me
disturbs the dust
and haunts
the cold of these walls
and hungry keyholes?
Shadows
enter at the exit
(I hear)
and outstay their welcome.
I yawn
and stretch
and rub my eyes,
as if to say,
“Time to go home. Party’s over,”
but they don't listen.
Can’t say when it started.
Don’t know when it will end.
Just hoping they’re not waiting
for me to join
the fun.
Midnight Sun
It’s the mornings
when I miss him
most.
A freefall
into whispers
of patchouli
and indentations
of cold sheets,
I devour
ghosts of ache
and breath
that haunted spaces
in between
heated nostrils, lips,
and tongues.
Memory
(the angles of his face)
sustains me,
the current
that drives these limbs,
‘til night
when all is gone
but a hunger
for the rising
of my midnight sun
and kisses
of opiate fire
on my skin.
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