Last night, your presence slipped into my thoughts
and assumed a persona that we both know quite well.
But unlike our other encounters, you had died already
before. And now, you were risen--as though the attempt
before did not have long-term effects.
And so the ghost of you, with your second chance,
decided to execute your second slay in a library,
the ceiling painted like the delicate Sistine Chapel.
Don't ask me why you chose this place--perhaps
you crave to haunt someone else's storybook.
I climbed the stairs and waited in hopes
that this time, I would catch you and convince you
otherwise. But you snuck your way around me
and tied the noose around the staircase
before I could stop you like I had not before.
I saw the rope tied tight around the bars,
and I knew it was too late to rescue you.
I ran as fast as I could to get to you,
and met you there. Your feet, a pendulum
like a child riding in the passenger seat.
Later on in the day, you took on a separate form
as though a reconcile was in order with me.
I woke from my light sleep, my lover overhead,
and you bent down to kiss me like you had not before,
and you vanished like I had not known you before.
A midnight writer, you have made of me now--
I'm fearing what character you will take on tonight.
Will you be a kind friend or a failed second chance?
Will I know that you are an imposter?--For now,
I'll prolong our meeting until my eyes droop.