There is a miniature ghost
trapped in my apartment
and he carries a syringe.

At night he slips through
the worn wooden floorboards
and injects me with a serum

so that I wake up at that
bewitched hour–
paralyzed with guilt

for all the things I didn’t do
that previous day.
For all the perfect moments,
the missed phone-calls I left
the sweet kisses I neglected to give

I can’t move under the weight of
the undone.