All that buildup,

the precipice,

quivering ,

the foreplay; the horseplay.

It burns its way in,

kicks in the parlor doors,

and doesn’t ask about any of those readily available ghosts

or about anything that could very well be documented;

not about any alibies or rabid dogs,

If that’s what they were really here for, in the first place

Bearing down on my eyelids, in the first place

if that’s what they really want,

Nervously scratching at my own stomach,

but it’s sweet,

My fingernails are barely legible in that crisp bathroom light,

under duress

and then

grabbing at my neck,

with whatever is left,

in the morning sun, the very next second,,,,,

with whatever is left.