you, in a room alone.
there's a vase with fake poppies
on the table beside me.
and it's quiet here -
i can hear the plastic flowers
a motorcycle glides by, cutting
the stiffening silence into twos.
there's a shelf of books next to me,
dusty pages chanting wondrously;
"this night gets curiouser and curiouser"
because it's so cold in here
that i can still feel the warmth of his
hand on my leg when i'm alone & a
cheshire grin to always keep me company.
i must've tumbled down a fake rabbit hole
when his phantom fingers tiptoed upon my
ghost handwriting on my spine spell his
name, filthy moonlight reflecting his signature
and a mistletoe is swaying
forth with a delinquent breeze, like a doll
suspended by a hangman's noose.