Coincidences aren't abstract; they're details
strung together by overlapping seconds
ticking into one monotonous blur,
a fate which nervously waited to occur.
Every single hallway has eggshells for walls,
goosebumps all over and occasional cracks.
Their glossiness is so vain. Even with the dimmest
of bulbs, their bodies seem to sparkle; thieves
absorbing light leaking passed closed doors,
but they toss the sound of her footsteps
between one another, as if the vibrations
would damage them.
Hallucinations all around him:
placebos permitting a phantom
to wrap her hands around his neck.
The ghost before him, though, isn't
tormenting him. She isn't greedily
slurped into the walls or floors,
and she holds no transparency.
Her voice,
muttered words echoing in his ears,
"One more floor."
With desperation,
he chokes,
"Delilah?"
Eyes entrapping the cemetery
which persistently deepens his grave;
graphite immersing in a frozen pond.
She could very well be Delilah's reflection,
but she is no specter stealing his soul.
"I'm sorry, but I'm not your fallen angel.
My name is--"
Crows performing a black magic ritual
caw curses at the newborn day;
midnight is welcomed by reverberating bellows
and a failed resurrection.
She is gone, vanished just like a hallucination.