The Haunting

Somewhere across the night

she whispers my name,

broken, stuttered but said all the same,

mumbled, muffled into a pillow,

absorbed by the bed,

by the dark air.

Past midnight’s lonely clouds,

the moon’s icy stare,

I, in my turn, call her name,

face, innocent and oblivious,

my answer always the same,

her name

is my answer.

With the morning and the alarm and the tea,

the names are gone,

too deep in the night’s restless sea,

we forget.

We forget, even, that we dreamt.

All that remains is a haunting,

of someone being lost to us,

of kisses missed,

yet somehow meant.

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