Lingering & Untitled

One five o'clock a Monday morning,created and born of a Sunday night,we clenched our fists and held our breathand failed to love our love to death.

You turned to me and in my earyou feigned a kiss, a silent tearand coughed the wordsI longed to hear.

I held your hand, an old man then.

And died in my sleep.

You coughed again.

Untitled

I close my eyesand tease your apparition to appear,a comforting spectral visionsheltered in the depthsof my deliberate blindness.

Your memory so close,you slide down the optic chiasmaand into my darkened sight.

Your eyes flashing,as the campfires of a lost expeditionare visible from a distancein the blackest of nights.

EveningsI keep the house darkhoping you might appearin a room,at your desk,standing before thekitchen table as you didwithout realizing it wasour final day together.

Whether you appear in my sightless gazeor in the darkened air,it is enough to know that while somelight candles to conjure away the night,I wait patiently in the darknessfor the miracle of sight.