I've taken to talking with your shadow
in the thinned hour of diaphonous night
between sleep starvation
and the alien greenglow of my stereo system,
in which you appear
a featureless sensation
pricking my spine with your
gracile but duplicitous ghostfingers
your image, a cross-hatched sketch
of underexposed memories,
a swampy mess of greys,
conjured up for comfort
earlier in the evening
when I was lucid enough
to be lonely for you,
now left over and distorted,
a time traveler with lacivious intentions,
malleable to my nearly-concious thoughts
Just before I awaken
from the brief lunacy of this acquaintance
I say to your spectre,
"Yes, I feel you."

07/17/2002

Posted on 07/17/2002
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