“ Your House Isn’t Haunted. You’re Lonely.”

It’s 4 AM and your skin is soft birch and your pillow indented.
You fume with stillness where your sleep is deep 
And almost nothing is as pure as your inner 
panorama of noise
Surging uncorked in millennia, as broad as Time’s banquet
Knocking the arrow of sweet slumber
To describe the arc of a falling star
into an open mind.

When you awake, she’s gone. At first you ponder, incredulous.
Then the Season descends it’s tendrils of departure
to snatch your precarious peace from its perch
like rolling thunder over a gasp.
your bed of fails, expansive in the dim pinch 
of not enough morning.
just before the sun has mocked your reveries
into the nook of your crevasse
of miseries.

as her ghost kisses 
your cheek.