Night Strikes Time

In the hour night strikes time dead
The past rests gently before my eyes
And all there is to do is to wait for light
To resuscitate the moment.
I share this lonely space with all my loves of yesterday.
I am dumb but full of things to say
But it doesn’t matter, they won’t listen anyway.
They’re done with me now; they’ve nothing left to do
But make love to my imagination
And even that’s just fucking.

It’s no more fun when no one wants to be here.
Two lie in a corner, naked and quickly fading,
Once sirens of perversion now little else than tired,
Their breasts sagging, their hair falling out…
I pay them no mind.

Some specters blur together, humping in obscurity.
How many nights old I wonder? When did they lose their faces?
Their mouths open and close like suffocating fish
As I sweep them beneath my carpet.
Their only defiance is the refusal to be forgotten.

Some midnight lovers still strive to remain ethereal,
Playing coy with dreams, wrapping my thoughts around the secrets
They never let me feel.
Flickering in and out of existence between each heavy breath
They taunt me with lost chances.

One hides with my alternative reality in the Hotel du Seze.
The rain falls gently inside my mind but we don’t notice,
We’re too busy finding happiness, endlessly making love
Within the dampness of the universe.
She laughs and sighs and writes my poems for me.

Lastly come the exiles, my colder, outer cosmos.
She makes up the rules of my border towns, sends me packing
With hungry eyes searching for a future.
Her mind is upside down and intent on turning mine.
I will not let her.

Waiting for the sun we sit and stare at one another.
The table is empty, the wood begins to rot.
They’re dying and we’re all the better for it.
When morning comes and runs through me like the stream of forgetfulness
I’ll stretch my arms out and embrace the coming day.
With new light comes the gift of possibility,
Of new lovers and friends and a thousand dispositions
To weigh against my own.
Still, my attic remains locked and full of dusty memories
With nothing left to wait for but a silent, ignominious end.