Nyctophobia  

I am afraid of the night,
afraid of the streetlight glow, spite simmering
rain, that roams like headlights along my walls,
nights blessed by my hollow body,
not asleep,
not yet.
I lie haunted by the heartbeats in this room
mine and yours, even though I’m the only one left
to inhabit this empty.

Memories come each night in a drizzle
sure as the loons wailing on the water,  
and like lake, I shimmer with the reflection
of each place you touched me, I feel you,
in a ripple, arms glowing like fireflies
the sway of the reeds paints my surface
incandescent, the memory of a lighthouse
that guided me through months and messes  
and marriage vows.  I wonder if you are gone,
really gone, or if you will you come back
in a fog of aftershave, rising from a pillow
struck in the night, the essence of you
fading away.

So you can find me here, in the dark
vision gone slack so I can see your face,  
I am a pillar of neon fingerprints,  
a silhouette of a statue that only appears
when the sun surrenders me to the agony.
Every ghost story starts with a life,
the spirit imbued with light, but is this story
has stopped mid-page
because I can’t give this pain away,
And you are the rain, already quieting.

If I sleep now, all traces of you
will dry by morning, so I sit  
in the stasis between waking and dreams
listening to the puddle splash  
and laughter storm eeking in from the dark,
the joy of the world washed clean
drowning me, as it washes you away.
This ghost story was never about you.