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.