Your hands feel the cold stone
of this textured tower wall. You look up
and see an arched, hollow window gaping
like a moaning train tunnel, darker inside
than the moonless night sky.
Instead of a door there flutters a rose petal,
dry, crispy, impaled on a thorn
that succumbs and disintegrates into the cold wind,
leaving the skeleton of the thorn bush
without its last memory of sunrise.

This chilly autumn air pierces the bridge of your nose
as you turn your hooded head away and take a muddy step
back toward the woods you braved through
on this chilly, moonless autumn night.
As the impending fog before you thickens
the last touch of almost starry night disappears
with the resounding click of a tower door in the distance
that never existed on this chilly, moonless autumn night.


[First draft]
Your hands feel the cold stone
of this textured tower wall. You look up
and see an arched, hollow window gaping
like a moaning train tunnel, darker inside
than the moonless night sky. This chilly autumn air
pierces the bridge of your nose as you turn
your hooded head away and take a muddy step
back toward the woods you braved through
in this chilly, moonless autumn night.
As the impending fog before you thickens
the last touch of almost starry night disappears
behind the rolling black clouds.

Even the dry, crispy rose petal impaled on a thorn
succumbs and disintegrates into the cold wind,
leaving what’s left of the thorn bush
without its last memory of sunrise.

The new dawn is breaking
Into our home, into our room
Through our window to take you
Away, to take you away from me again,
To package you up in a suit and tie.
The light is invading our space
Illuminating your scruffy morning face
That I won’t see again for a little while.

I pretend that if I ask you to stay,
to stay for me, to stay with me here,
here where the smoothly flowing cold sea
of sheets between my fingers fail to fill
the spaces the way your warm hands do,
that you’ll assure me that you won’t be gone
for too long, that we’ll be together again soon,
that everything will be fine, right before you pull
your body away from me and let go of my hand
because I do not, will not let go of my own accord.

Even in my daydream you have to go.

Loss is a heart drawn in the sand like a mandala,
Or bravery built like a sandcastle,
Too close to the edge of the sea when the tide comes
Slowly washing away every last grain,
Every speck of courage
Built up to walk across the boardwalk
To the end of the pier to look her in the eyes
And smile without an awkward, nervous giggle
To ask her to dance.
Her elegant wrist rests on the old, wooden
Pier guard rail that contrasts
With her soft, creamy hazelnut skin.
Her hair is backlit, gloriously
Set on fire, revealing her radiance.
You are not ready yet and all your plans are sure to fail.
The salt in the air is thick in your throat
As you notice how large the ocean is behind her,
And how high up the planks of wood you’re standing on
Rise above the crashing waves.
Loss is yours because you turn away
A few steps from deeper waters.
The wooden boards beneath you creak.

In a way, you, my dear friends, are in the company of a ghost.
Why is this, you ask? Or perhaps you don’t ask,
perhaps you don’t care at all. If you’re expecting dripping ghostly green ectoplasm
or a white bed sheet with holes cut out for the eyes,
then you, my dear friends, have the wrong expectations. You are wrong, yet
are still in the company of a ghost. A ghost
holds on long after his time, longing for more time here with his dear friends to feel loving arms
around his neck, arms that are slipping, arms that shouldn’t let go, mustn’t let go, arms that continue
slipping, those arms are gliding off too quickly, too soon, those arms.
Those arms are gone.
Those arms are no longer holding
our dear friend. He cannot let go
because those once loving arms
have let me go.
This is why you, my dear friends,
are in the company of a ghost.