The floorboards creak
as you shift your thin frame
closer to mine.
They groan like the
ghosts of our past,
the persistent and
unwritten tension
between us.
They speak
of the unspoken
desire, suddenly rekindled
by our proximity.
The ghosts sigh
as your breath brushes
my neck,
a welcome rush of warmth
against the chilly oak.
They sing hallelujah
as our breathing quickens
together
and when our hands brush,
the ghosts sing louder,
forming a crescendo
until our eyes meet.
Then they fall silent,
and for a moment
we (like them)
are paralyzed.
A door slams down the hall,
a gunshot
to our latent affair.
Too quickly the moment
passes, our irises disconnect,
and the ghosts silently retreat
back into the
floorboards.
Photo by Everton Vila on Unsplash
