The air seems to echo.
Her shadow stares as I sleep.
I see her eyes even when mine are tightly shut,
and all I do is agonise.
I stopped making sense over the summer,
never looking back,
tossing salt over my left shoulder,
leaving a trail as I trawl through the days with a million reasons for my melancholy.
The walls of my house know the truth.
The walls feel the cold as she passes by,
always in the early hours,
when I am surrounded by the sinister reminders,
their teeth, sharp,
their eyes, angry,
she strides past with a passing glance of pity.
Awaking from dreams I dreaded,
I remain a vignette of the secluded spectre that remains,
tormented by the wraith that has me wrapped around her little finger.
I wander the halls,
sobbing into the soft cream paint that fades on the forlorn doors,
searching for signs that some part of her still stalks the quiet corners.
I stayed up until 3:33 last night,
listening to the wind whispering a warning I would not heed,
her favourite flowers fanned out across the front garden,
begging to burn no longer,
howling like a lycanthrope from the house that she haunts.
It is the witching hour,
and my power pouts at me,
longing for the lover that lingers.
She is the one force I cannot face,
the one weakness of my will.
Let me resist?
Let me be released?