In shadows she come for me, not as a ghost
but as a flicker of the candle whispering to me
in flame. ‘O how she dances the wick.’
in a conversation of echoes and sighs
with ink that wont dry.
She does not speak in words, but in the way
the curtains flutter without a breeze
in the sudden, sharp silence of the clock,
and the way the mirror reflects
everything, except her grace.
.
Where I touch the cold phantom of her cheek,
the memory of hands that held me to her breasts
in the mist of moonligh, falling on the stones
with the scent of rain and her soul.
‘O how she dances the wick.’
