If you think me the moon, you are the sun.
You both bathe the world
In an orange, stifling heat.
If I am a thief of light, you are the one
Who so graciously shines it upon me.
You think me unaffected, but you
Have stolen the air from my lungs and
If I could snatch the gasp back from where
It rattles between your ribs, I would
Crush bones to do so.
But, I can no longer separate my emotions
From the feeling of your fingers ghosting down my spine.
Your gift is making sculptures from the stone I provide.
You take the barest my of bones and create a being of flesh and blood.
You populate this mausoleum you find yourself in
With your own over-analyzed ghosts.
I am there, my spirit breathing down your neck,
Clacking my nails on the marble table
Only because I haunt you.
Perhaps the vines of your soul have twined
Around the wrought of my heart.
The sun too, frustrates me as you do,
Leaves me with creases around my eyes.
But at night she is quiet, and it is only then,
When she whispers into the shell of my ear
That I realize I miss her.
I wonder if you can feel the ghosts of my thoughts,
A cold hand running through your hair because
I pour them out to you when you are away
As expansive and spectral as they can be.
No night is safe from thoughts of you,
Lying in bed, but thinking of us.