Phantom Itch
When the dark covers me, the fan’s spin hurts. The bed itches. Your name scratches in my body. I look at the ceiling to speak of you; it stays hard, dead— like you. Roses pass through me. I sit on the road watching them, trying to feel you— but you burn instead. Their scent wraps tight— a rope around my neck. Then I come to. The White Night. It whispers silence. I sit in it.