The Haunting

(rough draft)

You come to me at night.
Wreck my bed, my sleep.
Toss me, turn me. A wraith, a ghost.
I cannot touch you and you are impervious to my pleas.

You follow me to the grocery store.

Once, as I held a Valencia orange to my nose, breathed in its aroma,
you stood right behind my shoulder,
the soft touch of your lips grazing my earlobe.
I heard your whispers, recognized the timbre of your voice.
And fled the store, hastily dropping the tear-marked orange
onto a pile of nectarines.
Stranded. Forlorn. Yearning.

You came to me last night.
Held me from behind, whispering in my ear as we both looked into a mirror.
Your touch delicate, almost intangible.
Your voice soft, rich, flowing as Siamese silk.

I woke without sorrow.
Woke with forgiveness

for a change.