Lover and Phantom

If night were a
compulsion,
it would follow twilight
and enter the gala
of such doom,
such stay-awake
fears that I would
shiver by.

But it's become as
a phantom to what
my heart
ends up seizing,
when air is invisible
and no one is
stirring me.

I reckon it uses
nothing as its crutch,
for it needs only
darkness to
screech my name,
like vapid passion
on the splinters
in my finger's
tremor,

confessing silently
that others pen it
as a mirage-
when truly, it is
everything a
chimera haunts,
but is so much more

visionary.

For I hardly even know
the night,

yet it chooses me to act
as its own inamorata,
idolizing the very way
I fancy dawn's
silhouette,
when it knows that its
shadow is further
impressing upon
my belief
in illusions.

I once thought love
to be elusory,
but with dusk's request,
I hold the fear
of misconception
on the edges of my
collarbones,

and try to drink
away the mistake
of dreaming....

Written 6/27/2012 at 2:02 am.