I get scared at night
because that's when the ghosts come out.
Cupboards creak and gutters groan,
so I sit here under this new roof,
where music drips into my open ears like wine through dry lips,
and the curtains hide a world that gives me goosebumps.
The last year has made mountains and formed foothills,
each foot of elevation a bump in a long road:
the sort that's brought me across state lines and broad outlines
but exhausted by entropy and exoskeletons
and I need to rest.
I used to not sleep so soundly.
So I'd wash dishes,
listen to sad songs from southern belles,
looking for comfort in green apple dish soap
and finding nothing but my own reflection,
the glint of my own eyes
caught in freshly cleaned cocktail glasses
and my presence only felt in tapped toes.
And I still don't sleep so soundly,
although it's different,
if only a little:
in the other room,
I still hear hymns and still get goosebumps,
but now the song the way you snore when you go bed past midnight
and my body feels so broken lately,
sniffles and sneezes, coughs and complaints
feeling bedridden on sunny days and crypt-bound on rainy ones
I don't feel particularly qualified to face the sun, let alone the day
but then I'll wash a glass and see your lip prints on it
then remember that they also lay invisibly on my cheek,
and I want to rise like the moon and grab hold of the world
so I can lay it at your feet.
but until then,
I'm going to throw words on pages,
pray quietly for the soundness of your sleep,
and save you all of my ribbons.