Untitled (2.15.14)

There’s a ghost in this room,
and it knows my name,
my habits.

Listens in on me when
I talk to myself – tries to interject,
but is interrupted by his own silence.

Feels my prayers in whatever
heart he has left; the pieces
that survive take me in,
swallow me whole.

Grown accustomed to the moths
beneath my bed, and even visits them
when I’m gone:

knows their names, their habits,
listens in on them,
and swallows them whole.

When I made space for words, I made space for all things;
and I acquired, on some trip South, a lust for Warmth
and her quiet sorrows. She lifted slowly her curled fingers
towards me, branches of our yesteryears and clouds
plucked from Apollo’s back pocket. She promised oceans,
wonderful oceans, brimming with the teary-eyed dreams
of the Gods. She promised the Wind and his smooth
caresses; belly-fulls of drunken air, cool stuff, heated
marmalade. I visited her home here and again, leaving
my dusty shoes at her front steps. And with her carpets
made from the lukewarm melancholy of her father and
mother – their lifelong wishes accompanied by a soft
look in their daughter’s eyes, there, spread out against
the floor like spilled grains of sand, and sticking to 
the sole of one’s foot like careful insects, enjoying
what sweet carnival ride they’ve been rewarded –
I made my journey with gentle heel and toe. She
called me into her kitchen and upon the tables rested
golden plants, offerings from the West, her soul-proud
sister; and flowers of blue, gifts from her soft-spoken
brother, East. I lingered above those flowers for a few
moments before gliding without any aim in particular
to the room next-door. Upon the walls, family photographs,
colored in with yellows and oranges, smelling of
generations past and gone, faded rainbows
into misty night air. And more images of the 
lazy-looked family, their cool feet sitting on each
other’s laps, and their smiles, halfway to somewhere,
and sugary. Before leaving, she told me the story
of North, and of his collected face; she told me
of the moments sad and low, and reminded herself
of her love. She mentioned something – “he was –”
but I could not hear; she had whispered, almost as
if she had been alone. I left her, kissing her upon
her milky cheek. Then, brushing the underside of my feet
and putting on my shoes, I realized I may never 
return: How cruel love is, and how sweet.
I left a dream in that house, and parts of myself;
perhaps she will place them in a vase or hang
them on her walls, so that I might be saved
from being forgotten.