Frozen Fingers
The clock is ticking, tick
tock, tick
tock
the sounds dropping heavy from the pendulum,
except it’s just a pair of plastic hands
and I feel my own fingers tingling, numb
under their broken skins;
did I try to fight back?
My feet are cold, cold, cold
so cold I can’t feel a thing except
the heaviness of them hanging off me,
and my heart does not beat.
Instead, I am filled with the rhythm
of the clock, tick
tock
that’s right,
I’m dead.
I died in the night, perhaps,
under the watchful eyes of the cold moon,
under the silver skies,
under the invisible knife
held in frozen fingers.
Because your fingers would have to be frozen,
wouldn’t they,
to hold a knife like that?
tick
The darkness is heavy where it pools about
my heavy feet, but
tock
it’s light about my hair, lifting
tick
me up like dust
tock
floating
tick
tock, tick
tock
there’s my body on the floor
leaking dried brown tired blood
and laid down gently
but it isn’t the floor, is it?
I never wanted to be buried in a coffin.
I scream at the wooden walls
and flap like a cage of wild birds
and slam my bundled soul against the vault
but the concrete
doesn’t budge
of course
and my body will
decompose, down here
and never
never
... but I can leave.
tick, tock
where is the sound coming from?
tick, tock
my body may have been a cage, but it was
mine
so I kiss it goodbye
tick, tock
maybe this ticking is only in my head
but I could swear I saw the clock
when was that?
tick, tock
earth and sky, silver sky
filled with stars
and the warm gaze of the cold moon.
tick, tock
that’s it, now I know,
I’m a ghost,
left behind for the moment
but soon to be claimed by the next
unknown
step
so
tick, tock
why am I here?
And the scenery is speeding by as if I’m in a moving car
but it’s going far too fast
so where’s the cliff?
or the bridge?
the reason for this speed?
because why else would you drive this fast?
tick, tock
I’m home.
There he is.
I forgot about him.
How did I forget about him?
Maybe I didn’t love him as much as I thought I did.
I did wonder, sometimes.
He’s grieving, but
maybe he didn’t love me as much as he thought he did,
either.
tick, tock
it’s been days but
I still don’t know why I’m here
unless it’s to watch him
getting closer to this stranger
with her delicate hands
and easy laugh
and words as sweet as honey until
you have them in your mouth
and then you notice the
bitterness
beneath the fingernails.
tick, tock
maybe I’m just jealous.
But I don’t feel jealous.
I don’t feel much at all.
Maybe ghosts can’t feel.
tick, tock
it’s been days but
ouch, what
was that? I think
I touched her hand, her
frozen fingers
familiar
knife-gripping chill
poking softly at the
hollow in my
non-existent chest.
Maybe ghosts can feel.
tick, tock
Perhaps I will let her take him,
but then again,
maybe I really did love him.
It’s hard to know these things.
So maybe I’ll whisper in his ear until he listens.
tick, tock
I never thought I would be the type
to haunt my lover when I died.
But there it is.
tick, tock
he may be starting to listen;
he gets up in the night sometimes and
slips out of the bed he already shares and
looks up at the cold moon and
lets me whisper and
listens, he really does listen.
But he can’t believe it,
quite yet.
tick, tock
I’m fading
tick, tock
But he’s still listening
tick, tock
sharp flash of knife gleam and there it is,
clutched in frozen fingers
in a dark room
glistening in the light of the
reflected moon
cold, but
searing as a branding iron.
tick, tock
Perhaps I will let her take him,
but he’s been listening,
so maybe I’ll whisper one last time
tick, tock
before the last tatters of my fading
tick, tock
before I go onwards toward
tick, tock
before
tick, tock
watch out
I’m gone.
But I saw the invisible knife flash,
and his head turn in the moonlight,
and his eyes wide
and her smile frozen
like her frozen fingers
and he died like that,
watching her do it.
So maybe when I see him again,
if I see him again,
we’ll love each other (still? again?)
or maybe not.
But either way,
my purpose was filled,
my ghost
dispersed.
So I guess it all went well,
in the end.