Childhood haunts
And any I love yous offered Have become as empty as his apologies As the doorway The space in the bed beside me The lines in my notebook As I search for an inkling Of his sincerity but find only myself lingering. In my mind I practice slamming doors closed, Instead of throwing open bed sheets Shroud every mirror. Reaching for my anger beneath the floorboards of a home that has a resemblance in both our wavering childhoods, But only finding his. It’s cold in my hands — Like the tin cans we’ve tied to another, stretching across all this time. I cannot tell if the whispers in the dark a re between the boy who used ride his bike to school afraid it would one day vanish — And the girl who pretended she had a magic wand to make the nightmares disappear. Or if it’s the poltergeists, Drug in with the antiques of our adolescence .