Sublimity in print.

Somewhere in 2003,

At All Hallow’s night,

you entered the bathroom

And never come back

—a lot happens behind locked doors

 

 

Your name is still stuck in my throat

And it’s a heavy lump;

It’s so hard to swallow 

And your hair is scattered everywhere,

In the rug

In the couch

In my sweater

And in…

And the whole house still smells of you

 

 

There might be hope 

That if I collect enough,

I might hear your voice

—a sound like Autumn;

Comforting yet fleeting 

 

 

What time is it over the corn maze?

 

 

Don’t know when

Waiting…

For the season where we belong

Drugging the mind

With candied apples and kernel corns;

All that was left of the night

 

 

We carved out pumpkins 

And put our soul into the hollow 

And pulped the blood out of October

Into our skins

Painting the crimson beauty of death

And running into silent streets

Laying our back 

against wet, ghostly roads

That looked upon 

The love of a bare crimson sky

 

 

The car drove past the outskirts of Maine

And I saw you stop and wave good bye

And mouthed, “Come again”

 

 

Indeed,

 

 

I shall see you next Halloween, Matthew

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Fiction writer with a fictional name. He hasn’t made fiction stories yet, so you’ll just have to settle for poetry and articles.

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