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–
4am
paralyzed with guilt
for all the things I didn’t do
that previous day.
For all the perfect moments,
wasted
the missed phone-calls I left
un-returned
the sweet kisses I neglected to give
I can’t move under the weight of
the undone.
As someone who often overthinks things and finds himself thinking about what could’ve been, I find this poem very poignant and relatable. I enjoy your perfect use of ‘bewitched hour,’ those two words speak an entire story to me. Great stuff!
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Thank you so much! I appreciate your reading, and you are right “bewitched hour” sounds like a terrific beginning to a story.
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