Spectre

He’s sitting in the bedroom 

again.  

Waiting for me to enter, 

like the true gentler  

man 

that he tries to be.  

But it’s hard you see

because he doesn’t 

see

me.  

I’ll open the door and he’ll stare 

over my shoulder, 

lost in the abyss of the 

next room, 

a magical haze flooding in 

through the cracks between 

the door and its frame.  

And when he takes my hand 

it’s like a toothpick, 

pick, pick, picking at 

the gaps between my fingers 

and the space 

between my arm and its sleeve, 

across my neck 

and beneath my chest.  

He won’t tug at me the next day, 

he’ll say.  

No more passion, 

the sparks gone as fine 

as a butterfly’s  

wing.  

I’ll try to sing 

and will be shushed, 

because there is no space for 

concert  

between the door 

and its frame.  

Next evening and he’s 

waiting 

for me again.  

Breathe fast count 

to ten 

open the door and 

he’s staring, 

gazing through me like 

an old sheet, 

ancient scripture etched in 

wood and blood 

of innocents.  

The bedroom lights are out.  

I will walk inside and see him, 

his edges -  

a walker watching the sunset.