Mercurial Gratitude

A ghost grows cold upon the bed,

where the twilight has crept through the curtains

and seeps across the floor.

December bathes my face

in remembered light,

though its sheen is cold as ice

and the wind is howling.

The room is dark,

though there is a pale radiance

that shimmers beyond the window’s ledge…

beckoning

with gently sighing drifts

of snow.

My lungs grow heavy

as the air is dense and moist

upon my mouth and face,

caressing all the darker parts

of soul and skin.

I awaken from my dreams

to the sound of laughter,

which trickles from the outer atmosphere

as if

by accident.

My mind is slow

though strangely impatient,

and I am glad

for the pallidness of the mercury room,

for the emptiness of reason…

This life, this womb,

sheltering me

in padded walls

is a familiar presence

I will never resist.

I am grateful

to the empty room,

never before looking so much

like a grave…

grateful

for the absence

of desire.