Someone lived in this house,
And I can't figure out who,

Ghosts of beautiful words
Creak beneath the floorboards
And dark shadows stand in the gloom

Someone lived in this house
This was our house

There are demons in the basement
And I hide with the skeletons in the closet

We both slept upstairs
Well no

We didn't get much sleep
The demons ate away at you,
or me

We might as well be across the room,
But I still have to text you:
  
is this okay, is this okay, are you okay? I love you I need you don't go away

And you'd respond

Sometimes annoyed
But that's to be expected.

Sometimes you said it aloud,
Sometimes you screamed it,
And it echoed down the dark stairs:
this is okay, this is okay, I'm fine. I love you too, I won't go away

The ghosts of our past selves are haunting this house,
Our house.

And past demons always got in the way,
But god,
do I wish I could go back to a time,
When no ghosts lived here,
And my "I love you"s weren't running rampant.  
If this could've just been a house
And not our house,
Then maybe everything ever,
Would've actually been okay.
maybe I wouldn't have needed a break.

I don't believe this house is haunted any longer,
for now, it doesn't belong to anyone,
Though some neighbors still think it's haunted.

and some nights, maybe, if you're really lonely,
you can still hear a whisper:
did you ever love me? it's confusing you still know me.
is this okay, is this okay,
are you okay?

Stars gather in a twinkly show
     moon ascending in the dark sky,
          drowsy souls falling asleep
               in the still of night passing by.

        Drifting,
              floating,
                  peaceful dreams

               in gentle flows of height, and depth,
         myriad auroras of colors dance
a soft melody, on whispered breath.

Lingering just a moment or two
      as the world of dreams take hold,
           putting tired souls at ease
               in a soothing light of mosaic gold.

        Drifting,
              floating,
                  in songs of night

            magical melodies fill the air,
      floating upon a gentle breeze
tranquil moments, and answered prayers.

Stars gather in a twinkly show,
     moon ascending in the dark sky,
          drowsy souls falling asleep,
               in the still of night passing by.
~

© 2017 Brianna Love/SA/DBMA

I think its the lights,

or maybe the sounds?

that make late night car rides

so peacful.

With the radio to drown out

all your demons,

of stress and depression.

And lights flickering by,

making your eyes look like galaxies.

Staring out the window,

watching the sleeping world

as you drive passed.

My shelf holds worlds;
  bending under multi-colored,
peeling teeth; paper raked by pupils.
  Cream clenches then spreads,
like a jogger's lung, and I say,
  This is why I normally take it black.
  
Something Steven Spielberg presented
  is strapped to my wall, reminding me of
  my childhood that has left my memory
faster than I hoped it would.
  There's a decaf tin holding mini-presidential tombstones.
I keep a picture of a woman
  I don't even know because
she looks happy and I envy that.

This room is hermetically sealing
  3 AM insomnia and daydreams.

Nighttime sounds different here.
The birds sing.
The bugs hum.
From the other side of town comes the beating of some thumping, bumping drum.

Every night feels the same:
Birds sing,
Bugs hum,
From the other side of town comes the beating of some thumping, bumping drum.

At five o'clock the faithful are woken and told to face North, to a city far away.
While for us, we lie prostrate in our beds and turn towards that great black shadow of routine, broken sleep.